


Heist

by ScienceGeeky



Category: Parahumans Series - Wildbow
Genre: A story about capes that takes place in the Wormverse but without characters we know, Gen, I'm writing this for a friend who asked for OC fic, Parahumans universe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-24
Updated: 2019-08-27
Packaged: 2019-08-28 21:31:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 34,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16731009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScienceGeeky/pseuds/ScienceGeeky
Summary: Welcome to the cape scene of the Minneapolis/St. Paul area. One small group is avoiding most of the action, keeping their heists almost completely hidden from both authorities and the Protectorate. But they have other goals and other responsibilities. There's more than meets the eye here.





	1. Status Quo

**Author's Note:**

> A very good friend of mine convinced me to read Worm and then told me she wanted to see more OC-type fic in the Worm-verse. So I wrote some. I hope people like this! I love kudos and comments, so tell me what you think!

“Three.” 

Artemis shifts slightly from the top of the building. Barbie takes another walker-assisted step. The Artist begins to fold up her easel. Ferra taps her earpiece. I crack my neck. 

“Two.” 

Artemis nocks an arrow. Barbie reaches up for her wig. The Artist pulls a paintbrush from the belt on her waist. Ferra pulls on her black gloves. I swing my head to the left, checking for unforeseen obstacles. 

“One.” 

Artemis draws back her bowstring. Barbie stands up straight. The Artist takes a very small step. Ferra stretches her fingers out in her gloves. I look to the right and see nothing. 

“Go.” 

Artemis lets go of the bowstring. Barbie rips off her gray wig and throws her walker into the legs of the taller guard. The Artist yanks the bristles off her brush to reveal a micro-USB. Ferra pulls a knife from its sheath. I throw my rappel line over the edge of the building and prepare to drop. 

The shorter guard drops as one of Artemis’s darts hits him right in the neck. The taller one is still struggling to deal with the walker to the legs as Barbie clocks him in the face. He reaches for his radio, but Ferra lets out a blast of power and it skitters away from him. Before he can call anyone else both of them are on the ground, unconscious. 

I rappel the three floors down to the ground, yank the rope down, and use it to tie up the guards. “No one’s coming.” 

“Let’s go,” Ferra says. “Barbie?” 

“You got it.” Barbie molds herself into a near-perfect copy of the shorter guard and throws on his uniform. The four of us drag the guards into the shop, still tied up, and close the door behind us. I check around and see no movement, now or in the future. 

The Artist pulls her supplies from a small canvas on her built and sets about undoing the electronic security measures while Ferra works to crack open the actual safe. I crouch down behind the jewelry store counter and watch. Heavy metal grates protect the front windows from being broken, but not seen through. Being spotted could mean disaster. As capes, we would be inviting double disaster if a PRT squad or someone from the Protectorate were to be called in. For that matter, we have independent heroes in this city. One of them could seriously fuck up our plan. 

“Fuck me,” the Artist curses into her earpiece. 

“What’s wrong?” I ask. 

“They got new encryption for the system while I wasn’t looking. Ferra, where are you with the safe door?” 

No response. 

I turn around and see Ferra with her ear pressed up against the safe, listening to the clicks. I have to warn her without alerting anyone. 

I rip one of the dangling beads off my costume and throw it directly at her head. I see her wince and curse under her breath before jamming her earpiece back in. “What the hell, Medium?” 

“New encryption. If you set foot on that floor to early you’ll trigger every alarm there is.” 

She nods. “Got it.” 

“Someone’s about to walk by. Hold.” I say. 

A moment later, a couple walks by, holding hands. I follow their future-image until it’s out of sight and determine from their past-image that they’re going straight down the street. 

“Go.” 

Ferra flips her flashlight back on and the tiny clicks from the Artist’s computer resume. 

A moment later, there’s another sound. It’s one of the guards. He’s woken up and is thrashing around, trying to get out of his bindings. His future ghost isn’t stopping. 

“Medium, shut him up,” Ferra whispers into her earpiece. 

I crouch down so I’m not visible from the street and slink over to the two guards. The one Artemis shot isn’t moving, but the one Barbie clocked is. I can’t let him see me clearly, so I start by covering his face with my sash before I get close. The beads weigh it down and make it near-impossible to shake off without using his hands. 

I clamp my hand over his mouth so he can’t scream and dig into the folds of my costume. I do in fact have my little bottle of knockout drugs. I crush a tablet of rohypnol and pull out another little bottle of sugar water. Keeping the guard’s eyes covered, I pull my scarf away from his mouth. I tip the drugs in with the sugar water and pour the mixture into his mouth, clamping my hand back over his mouth to keep him from spitting. 

He struggles against my hand, but he’s bound tight and still needs to breathe. It’s not an instantaneous effect like with Artemis’s darts, but by the time Ferra has the safe open, the guard is sedated enough that he won’t cause us any trouble. 

“Open sesame,” Ferra breathes. 

“I still don’t have it,” the Artist mutters, irate. 

I slip back up to the front of the shop and peek out into the street. No one. According to Artemis’s stakeouts, the police patrol will come by between midnight and one AM. Not for another half-hour. 

“I’m going to start on part two,” Ferra says. “Tell me when you’ve got it, Artist.” 

“Yeah.” 

Ferra joins me in the front of the shop and starts picking the locks. She doesn’t open anything, but she gets the locks ready to go, leaving the picks in place. 

“We’re good,” the Artist says, finally. “Store is in daytime access mode.” 

“Excellent. Come up here and I’ll clean out the safe.” 

The two of them carefully trade places, ready at a moment’s notice to drop out of sight if I see someone coming. The Artist grins at me as she undoes a snap to remove another small canvas from her belt and starts removing a nigh-endless stream of jewels. She carefully removes various real pieces from display cases and swaps them for the fakes I carefully built. The matches are pretty much exact, I note with pride. Barbie came to the store in various disguises and took pictures for me to work with, but it’s never a sure thing until the two are side-by-side. 

This is the riskiest part, because it’s hard to stop this process once it’s going. The Artist drops another necklace into one of her “empty” paintings and shoots me a look. I nod. We’re alright, for now. 

“Ten minutes,” Artemis says. 

“Mark,” Ferra says. In and out in twenty, she said. We’re right on target. 

Ferra slips up to the front, too, to add her stash to the Artist’s canvas. We can’t replace what’s in the safe, so instead Ferra takes the fake evidence the Artist gives her and goes to plant it. We plan to pin this, as with most of our less secretive heists, on those neo-Nazi sons of bitches. 

The Artist closes another case. “Just two more to go.” 

“Good,” Ferra says. 

“Clear,” I say. 

“All clear back here,” Barbie says. 

I scan the street, back and forth. No one. Can I be sure? I check for future and past trails. No future ones I can see, but plenty of past trails from the business of the day. Keeping one eye on the present, I scan for anyone who looks suspicious. Could someone else have cased out the joint and try to rob this store at the same time as us? That would ruin everything. Or maybe some police are onto us, staking us out so when we dodge away they can catch us red-handed. Fuck, we could be so screwed right now and not even know it. 

No one seems to be posing a threat. 

The Artist closes the last case and Ferra comes by to lock them all again as the Artist fills her canvases with stolen goods. Since she left the picks in, she can lock all the cases again. 

“Let’s go,” Ferra says. 

One by one, we slip out the backdoor. I take my scarf back from the guard and tie it in place around my outermost drapey layer. Ferra playfully tosses me back my bead. 

Once outside, we scatter. First Ferra, slipping into the pants and shirt the Artist hands her, takes a few alleys in the direction of our house. Barbie takes a new shape, that of a man, and as she molds herself I strip off my outer layers to a single plain skirt and shirt. Barbie leaves in the opposite direction Ferra did while the Artist folds my costume into a painting while she takes off her own. Her wig and mask disappear and she puts on an unassuming skirt suit. 

“Go, Artemis,” I say. 

“Got it,” she says, and I see her pale shape jump to another building. She’ll be home in no time. 

I check one last time for future images and see none. The Artist nods to me and we split up, walking in opposite directions towards our respective modes of transportation home.


	2. Ice Ice Baby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Medium's everyday life and the beginning of the group's next project.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! So updates will be pretty inconsistent because this is a secondary project, but I'm hoping to get one every couple of weeks or so. Thanks for reading and I hope you like this!

The front door lock is, as always, incredibly fidgety. I fiddle with my key for a moment before it clicks. Another few clicks follow, various mechanisms disengaging. I can see a short shape moving behind the frosted glass and I know Elliot’s been waiting up. 

“Hey there, Ice Ice Baby,” I say. 

“Hi Ma!” he says. 

“Where’s your Mom?” 

“She’s in the living room with Mama.” 

“Are Mum and Mother back yet?” 

“No, but Mom said I could wait up until everyone comes home.” 

“Alright, Icy. I guess that’s alright.” 

He grins and follows me to the living room, where Florence and Catherine are sitting in different armchairs. There’s a fire in the hearth and a bowl of fruit on the table, which explains the banana Catherine’s eating. 

“How long have you been here?” I ask. 

“Long enough to get out of costume,” Florence says. “Go ahead and get changed. We’ll wait for the Artist and Barbie.” 

“Are they alright?” 

“I’m sure they are,” Florence says. “They took the longest routes.” 

“But what if they’re not? How long do we wait before we go after them?” 

“Medium, go upstairs and get changed,” Catherine says. “They’re going to be okay.” 

“I guess.” 

“Fifteen minutes,” Florence says. “If you hadn’t been back in five, I would’ve gone out.” 

“I’m going, I’m going,” I say, trudging out to the hallway and then up the stairs. I pass Catherine’s room, Etta’s room, the studio, my room, before I finally arrive at our prep room. 

I strip off the colorful, drapey layers of my costume so I can reach around to undo my mask. I take a deep breath in as I do and then exhale in a puff. It’s good to get the thing of my face. I pull the pins out of my hair one by one and release individual locks until it’s all in a curtain around my face and neck. I give it all a good shake before tying a loose ponytail and taking off my last layer: the skintight suit and bodyarmor I wear under the whole sideshow medium getup. I change into sweatpants and a loose T-shirt and head back downstairs, trying not to worry. 

“Hi Anjila,” Catherine says. 

“Hi, Catherine,” I say, taking a pear from the fruit bowl. Elliot is leaning against Florence’s armchair while she plays with his hair. He’s half-asleep. 

I can’t think of anything else to say, so I sit and feel the silence grow more and more tense. 

It’s only five minutes before the front door chimes again and Elliot springs awake from his half-asleep. He runs to the door and then says, “Hi Mother!” 

“Barbie’s home,” Catherine breathes. 

Barbie does indeed join us in the living room, giving everyone a nod before she goes upstairs to change. I check my watch. Where’s the Artist? My foot starts a restless tapping of its own accord. 

Five more minutes. 

“I’m getting dressed again,” I say. 

“No, you’re not,” Florence says steadily. 

“She’s fine,” Em says. “The Artist doesn’t look anything like herself out of costume and she’s kicked plenty of ass in her time.” 

“She could still be recognized. And even if she isn’t, it’s late and dark. She could get hurt.” 

“She won’t,” Em says flippantly. 

“Stay put,” Florence says. “Five more minutes. It won’t do anyone any good to have two of us running around out there.” 

“I suppose,” I concede. 

Just as I sit back down, the front door dings, and Elliot runs over with a cry of, “Mum!” The Artist walks in, trailed by Elliot, who looks excited but exhausted. The tension absolutely melts away from my body. She’s back. She’s home. We’re all okay. 

“Etta,” I say. 

“Let me get changed and then we can debrief.” 

“Everyone’s home,” Florence says. “That means it’s bedtime, baby.” 

“Mom, come on, please,” he complains. “I’m not a baby anymore.” 

“You have school tomorrow. Not to mention your Krav Maga and swimming lessons.” 

“I don’t even like swimming.” 

“It’s important,” Florence says. “It’s almost midnight. It’s time for bed.” 

“Ugh, fine…” he says, and he plods over to his bedroom. 

Once his door is closed and his future image out of sight, and Etta is downstairs again, Florence says, “Alright, let’s debrief. What’s our haul?”

“We got everything we meant to,” the Artist says, reaching into her canvas and pulling out a handful of diamonds. 

“Perfect,” Ferra says. “I’ll start fencing them tomorrow and we’ll have plenty in time to pay the bills.” 

“You got it,” Etta says. 

“Okay, good. So, how do we feel like this went?” 

“I think this one went really well,” Catherine says. “As far as we know, no one will ever know it’s us. They’ll call the cops in the morning and blame those neo-Nazi sons of bitches, and we’ll get our money and start planning the next job.” 

“I’d agree,” I say. “I think having three lookouts is pretty nice, when we can swing it.” 

Etta nods. “Yeah, I like it pretty well too. Having everything planned out in advance is also pretty great. We got in and out very fast.” 

“What can we take from this one?” Florence asks. 

“More prep,” I say. “The stakeouts and Em’s pictures from recon in the store both gave us lots of security and foreknowledge. Making copies went pretty easily with such good photos.” 

“Yeah, stakeouts are great,” Catherine says. “Knowing when all the patrols and things are should keep being one of our priorities. That roof was a great vantage point I wouldn’t have known about otherwise.” 

“I think the most important thing to take from this is that we can do these quicker jobs without a month of planning,” Em says. “I mean, stores instead of people and all that. It’s easy to make myself into a guard.” 

“Speaking of, our next job starts now,” Florence says. “We can go over it tomorrow, but we’re stealing from Jason Trevor’s private art collection. Em and Catherine, you’re going to be our people on the inside. Anjila, you’re on forgeries, and Etta, his security system. I’ll be getting our tech from Odds and Ends and doing the usual nonsense.” 

“Sounds great. Can we go, now?” Em asks. 

“That’s all I have. Do you guys have anything?” 

No one speaks up. 

“Alright, then. I’ll see you in the morning.” 

Em immediately leaves for her room. I hear her shower turn on, and her future image does not reappear. 

“I’m going to watch some HGTV,” Catherine says. “Anyone else is welcome.” 

“I’m going to get some sleep,” Florence says. “Goodnight, everyone.” 

“Night,” I say. 

I don’t have much else to do, but I won’t be going to bed quite yet. Once everyone else does, then I will. Once everyone’s safely asleep and the doors and windows are all locked and all the lights except the ones in Em’s room off, then I can go to sleep. 

Etta turns in first. An hour later, Catherine stretches and says, “I’m going to bed. Should I leave the TV on, Anjila?” 

“Yeah, alright,” I say. “I’ll stay up a little more.” 

“Alright. Get some sleep, though.” 

“I will.” 

She nods at me, still looking a little concerned, and goes upstairs to her room. 

I give it fifteen more minutes, and then do my usual walk-around. All our doors and windows are locked, front door mechanisms are in place, and Em’s lights are on, meaning she’s asleep, while Florence’s and Elliot’s are off, meaning they’re asleep. Upstairs, all the doors and windows I can get to are locked, Catherine and Etta’s lights are off, and our alarm is armed. I check for past images and everyone’s in their rooms. 

I go to my room, lock my door and window, and turn on the shower. Once the water’s warm, I strip, get in, cry for twenty minutes, wash my hair and body, dry off, and go to bed. 

My alarm wakes me up at seven-thirty AM with its usual chiming tones. I groan and slap it off, feeling tired. I did get to sleep awfully late, but that’s nothing new. I guess I just need some coffee. 

I roll out of bed and trudge to my bathroom. Time to start the day. 

I check myself in the mirror before I head downstairs. My hair is tied into a perfect bun, my collar is pressed just so, and my skirt suit looks smart and neat. Another costume for another job. 

Elliot is sitting at the kitchen table, eating Frosted Flakes and reading the comics, when I walk downstairs. 

“Good morning, Elliot.” 

“Morning Ma.” 

“Do you have all your homework done?” 

“Yes, Ma,” he says, rolling his eyes. 

“Good,” I say, ruffling his hair. He sticks his tongue out at me. 

I make myself a bowl of oatmeal and sit down next to him to eat it. Florence bustles into the kitchen, kisses Elliot’s forehead, and bustles back out. She’s probably got a dozen and a half meetings today. Or, Ferra does, anyways. 

“I’ll walk him to the bus stop,” Etta says as she sits down with her breakfast. 

“I don’t need anyone to walk me to a bus stop,” Elliot complains. “I’m ten! I can walk to the bus stop all by myself.” 

“Baby, you have powers,” Etta says. “You have to be careful.” 

“No one knows, though. And I have it all under control.”

“You never know,” I say. 

He rolls his eyes but permits Etta to hand him his backpack and follow him out the door. 

Before Etta comes back, I have to drive to work. I throw my briefcase onto the passenger seat and turn the car on. Another day in corporate America.

I sit down at my desk at exactly nine o’clock and check my email. Natalie’s sent me something about quarterly inventory discrepancies, but that’s so not my department it’s not even funny. I write her a short and to-the-point response and turn to the rest of my emails. I’ve got confirmation from the local branch managers about a meeting. Some reports of harassment that got sent up I’ll have to investigate. A complaint about turnover at one of our southern stores forwarded to me by my higher-ups I’ll have to deal with. And various other nonsense that comprises the ins and outs of my day job. 

Jenny knocks on my door around noon. “Hey, Anjila. Wanna grab lunch?” 

“Sure. Want to go out?” 

“Not today. I’m trying to save money. Did you bring lunch?”

“No, I’ll just run out and grab something from the Starbucks around the corner.” 

“Sounds good. I’ll meet you in the break room. I have got to tell you what Susan said at book club last night.” 

“Can’t wait,” I say with a grin. I put my computer to sleep and take the elevator down. As I walk to the Starbucks around the corner, a police car whizzes by, lights flashing and siren blaring. Is it possible that the car is going to the jewelry store we robbed? If it is, what if they know I’m involved, somehow? I’m just walking down the street! What if they spot me? 

The car passes me without stopping. 

I’ll have to check the news from my office. I can do that at least without arousing suspicion. 

“Okay, so,” Jenny says, the moment I sit down. “Let me tell you about Susan…” 

I nod along, listening to her story about Susan from book club who never reads the book, much less brings wine when it’s her turn. 

“What about you? How have you been?” 

“Just fine,” I say. “Bills are due soon, and one of my housemates is stressing. Well, she’s always stressing. Kind of how she is.” 

Jenny nods knowingly. “My husband can be like that sometimes. Well, we make good money here, so I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about.” 

“Oh, I’m not worried,” I say. “Actually, speaking of, how is your husband?” 

I let her chatter away, listening as I eat my lunch. Jenny is a comforting friend. She doesn’t live at all in the cape world, and it’s nice sometimes to know someone who doesn’t spend all her time being two people. 

Back at my desk, I pull up national news sites first, then state-wide ones, and finally city ones. At the city level, there are reports about an audacious jewelry store robbery suspected to be perpetrated by the local branch of Empire 88. A quick calculation of prices reveals that they’re only reporting the losses from the safe. For now, my group is in the clear. I breathe a sigh of relief. 

At five o’clock sharp, I pack up my briefcase and drive home. 

My real work starts when I close the garage door behind me. I plop my briefcase in the office and go upstairs to put on painting clothes. Catherine doesn’t have a shift tonight. Etta’s going to be home soon. As soon as Elliot’s at Krav Maga tonight, we’re going to start a new heist, and that’s my real work. 

It’s Em’s turn to drive Elliot, and as soon as she’s back in our prep room Florence lays out the plan. 

“Jason Trevor. Early thirties, young money, extensive private art collection. Made his money in electronics, but has made some big risky choices in the past. Those paid off. This one won’t.” 

She nods at Em and Catherine. 

“First of all, Barbie and Artemis, you’re going to ingratiate yourselves with him. Barbie in disguise of course, and Artemis as a foil to make Barbie seem more attractive.” 

“Oh, that’s a good idea,” Catherine says. “Clever.” 

“Thank you,” Florence says with a tiny smile. “Barbie, your goal is to get as much info as possible. He offers tours of his collection, so I know what he has, but find out which pieces he might notice changes in more than others and which ones he cares most about. Assess how paranoid or otherwise he is, what he considers a threat, all that. Artemis, once you’re out of the picture, you’re going to be on recon. Police patrols, response times, daily patterns of security guards and people in the house, all that. Also, it would be good to have you on guard when Barbie’s with the mark, in case things go bad.” 

“Got it,” Catherine says. 

“Artist, you’re on security. Build a path through the collection we can follow, with respect to cameras and other sensors. It’d also be great if you could get us some paintings to carry our haul to and from in, as well as various weapons. Medium, you’re on copies. The more the better. You can also help Artemis if she needs it.”

The Artist and I both nod. 

“And I’ll be making sure no one else stakes claim on this, filling in where needed, getting the tech we need, and fencing our diamonds and other such things. Any questions?”

No one speaks up. 

“We start tomorrow. Get some sleep tonight, everyone. It’s going to be a long month.”


	3. Prep Work

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone prepares for the next job. Elliot has some questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! Thanks for the comment and kudos. I've finished coming up with capes for the area, so look forwards to some other characters showing up very soon!

“Dammit,” Etta curses. If I wasn’t so used to it, I might jump and ruin my painting. It’s a Matisse, one of Jason Trevor’s more valuable pieces, and it’s a careful job to get the colors exactly right. 

“Hitting walls?” I ask. 

“Yeah,” she says. “But look, he’s really taken to Barbie--Kelsey.” 

I glance over at her computer screen and see the mark’s computer screen. He’s on Kelsey’s Facebook page, carefully curated to reflect a variety of semi-quirky interests--modern art, environmentalism, tropical fish. She gave him her Facebook when they “just so happened” to meet at a bar a few days ago, on Friday. 

“Kelsey is having an art show this Saturday,” Etta says. 

“Really?” 

“Yeah. I pulled a few strings as the Artist, and I have some old paintings on an environmental theme she’ll be presenting--cohesive enough to be a single style, and different enough from my work that they’ll look like someone else’s. He just needs to click on this link. It’s full of viruses.” 

“Clever,” I say. “And it’s a good place for them to meet and her to win him over.” 

Etta nods. “How’s the painting?” 

“Just fine,” I say. I hold my little RGB device up to the painting and compare the readout to the numbers from Florence’s pictures and online prints. “This red matches perfectly.” 

Etta smiles. “You’re good at that.” 

“It’s a living,” I say. 

She laughs at my dumb joke and turns back to her computer. I grab a paintbrush and start copying the broad, inconsistent brush strokes. 

“I’m home!” Catherine hollers, throwing open the front door with a bang. 

“Up here!” Etta calls back. 

Catherine pounds up the stairs, not aggressive but loud, and bursts into the studio to collapse dramatically on one of the couches--the big comfy one we got secondhand. “Oh my gosh, Jean was so annoying today! I’d swear she was stealing my tips if most of them weren’t credit cards. And do you remember that guy who swore he’d never come back? Well, guess who was back in my damn section, with his wife?” 

I tune out after that, a little, occasionally contributing a sympathetic word or two. It’s nice to have the background noise. 

“Looks good,” Catherine says, and I snap back. 

“Oh, yeah,” I say. 

“Who is it?”

“Matisse. One of his later works, when he got more colorful and abstract. It’s Fauvism--a bit like neo-Impressionism, but different.” 

“I’ve literally never heard of that in my life,” Catherine says. 

“Fair enough,” I say. 

“I wish I’d gone to college,” Catherine bemoans. 

“You could, now, you know,” Etta points out. “We have the resources.” 

“I don’t think we have the time, though,” Catherine says. “Besides work, I’m staking out the house, playing Em’s less cool friend, figuring out the police and PRT-type patrols in the area, planting devices in the alarm systems, avoiding the heroes…there’s a lot to go!” 

“You could quit your job,” Etta points out. 

Catherine frowns. “No, I can’t.” 

“Yes you can. I can whip up tax papers for you, and you could do something else--like college.” 

“I can’t quit my job,” Catherine says. “Alright? Jeez.” 

Etta holds her hands up in surrender, then puts them back down almost immediately to type something else. “Alright. Well, I’d offer to help out with your stuff, but I’m a bit busy myself.” You know.” She gestures with one hand towards her computer. 

“Yeah.” 

“I don’t have any spare time either,” I say apologetically. “Sorry.” 

“No worries,” Catherine says blithely. “You guys have a lot to do too. That’s why there’s five of us. We’d never be able do this alone.” She peaks over at my painting again. “Do you have any finished ones?” 

“Just one, over there,” I point. It’s a Mondrian. It hardly counts. I copy those with a ruler and painter’s tape. 

“Nice!” Catherine says. “Is this…Manet?” 

“Mondrian,” I say. “Close. Manet’s more of a realist and impressionist, depending on his era. Mondrian is super abstract, save his early impressionist-type works, which aren’t as valuable.” 

“You know a lot about art,” Catherine repeats. 

“I guess I do,” I agree. “I did my thesis on the Impressionists, so it’s mostly them.” 

“Sure, but you also know non-Impressionists.” 

I shrug. I didn’t exactly ace my Classical art courses. Studies from before the Renaissance dragged me way down in grad school. 

Catherine’s watch alarm beeps. “Oh, look at that. I’ve got to go. I’m going to follow the next Protectorate patrol rotation and see who goes near the mark’s house when. I only took morning shifts this week for this,” she points out, complaining but not really. 

“Go on, then,” I say. “Good luck.” 

She nods, scoops up her purse, and heads off in the direction of the prep room. When she comes back not ten minutes later, she’s the picture of Greek goddess. Her costume is a white knee-length tunic with a woven golden rope belt. Her hair is braided and threaded through with (plastic) laurels, something she can now do so quickly it’s unbelievable. She’s wearing her full-face mask, a white Venetian-type mask with a delicate smile on its full lips. It’s molded to look just like the old statues of Artemis herself, impassive and beautiful. She sometimes wears brown leather sandals to complete the Greco-Roman look, but today she’s wearing brown leather boots with the same look. Underneath it all is a black bodysuit, just functional for holding on the body armor. 

All in all, she looks like a hero. As far as most people know, she is. 

“I’m off,” she says, her voice a little muffled. 

“Have fun,” I say. 

She might grin, but I can’t tell. “See you on the other side.” 

She waves, turns, and is gone. 

“I feel like I should redo my costume,” Etta says, “She did that when she was sixteen.” 

“I know,” I agree. “A bunch of cheap scarves over an old saree and veil just doesn’t feel that interesting.” 

“I just need to make a new bodysuit,” she says. “The last one I painted isn’t very good at all. The skirt and suspenders are still good, but I should repaint my mask, too.” 

“Yours is so creative, though. I feel like I should reinvent my concept.” 

“I don’t know, I like your look. It’s colorful and fun, and you look like a hero.” 

“Yeah, I mean, there’s a reason the police fucking hate us. Only Ferra looks even a little like a villain. I should do some darker colors.” 

“Do they make sarees in dark colors?” 

“Yeah. Mostly brown and maroon with gold trim. But then I’d have to, you know, actually spend money on my costume. That could fit in with the villain aesthetic, I guess. I don’t need to keep up a hero reputation--or a rogue one. ” 

“We’re just playing the reputation game, baby,” Etta says. “All of us.” 

I nod. It’s all about reputation in the cape game, and we’re playing it as well as we can.  

“Oh, yikes,” Etta says. 

“What’s up? Did the link not work?” 

“Oh no, I’m in his computer. If he weren’t at said computer I’d be working with that. I just saw he’s got a couple of Romantic paintings you might have trouble with.” 

I glance over at her second monitor and see a really lovely painting of a man standing next to a dramatic waterfall that will indeed take me some time. “Ugh,” I say. “Can’t we rob someone who, I don’t know, loves that really simple modern art?” 

“Ask Florence,” Etta says. “There’s probably a modern art enthusiast somewhere in the Cities.” 

“Somewhere,” I say. “I hope.” 

“At least it is an art heist,” Etta says. “Would you rather we stole a bunch of boring cash again?” 

“Fair enough,” I say, and I turn back to my painting. 

It’s quiet for about an hour, save for Etta’s mutterings over her computer and accompanying taps on the keyboard. My progress is steady, as I am practiced in the art of forgery, and I’m pretty proud of my progress when Florence joins us. 

“How are things going?” she asks. 

“Pretty good,” Etta says. “I’m in his laptop, and depending on how much of a control freak he is, I’ll be in his cameras by tonight or tomorrow. As far as I can tell, he monitors his personal security from his desktop, and as soon as he uses that it’ll have my viruses too.” 

“Control freak?” I ask. 

“If he controls the cameras himself or has the company do it.” 

Florence nods. “And Anjila?” 

“I’ve got one done,” I say. “The Mondrian. Took me half a day. I’m working on this Matisse now, and I should be done soon.” 

“Right on track,” Florence says. “Is Em in with him?”

“Yep,” Etta says. “He’s definitely going to her art show.” 

“And Catherine?” 

“She left an hour ago to watch some patrols,” I say. “What are you up to these days?” 

“Well, before dinner, I’m going to be meeting with Belle to get our earpieces fixed. I told the Heretics and Odds and Ends what we’re doing, with some subtle threats thrown in.”

“And The Professionals?” Etta asks, a note of anxiety in her voice. 

“I really doubt they’re going to take up art heists out of nowhere,” Florence says evenly. “And I thought it better not to tell them where we’d be.”

“Yeah, makes sense,” Etta says, a little reluctant. 

“What else have you been up to?” Florence asks us. 

“Well, I’ve been thinking of redoing my costume,” Etta says. “My skirt still works, but the bodysuit could stand to be repainted.”

“Me too,” I said. “My look isn’t doing it for me right now.” 

“As long as the body armor still goes under it,” Florence says. 

“Don’t worry,” I say. “I don’t actually want to get shot.” 

“Sounds good,” Florence says. “I’m going to look over our finances. Keep up the good work.” This last bit she says with a half-smile, teasing. 

Etta and I grin as she leaves for the office. 

“This program’s going to have to run on its own for a while,” Etta says. “It’s going to find an admin password I need. If he doesn’t go to his desktop I’ll need to brick his laptop. Can you keep an eye on it? I’m going to dig up my fabric paint and a new bodysuit. I don’t know what I’ll make it yet, though.” 

“I mean, what will you need most often? Like, what would be practical?”

“I don’t know,” she says. “It’s not always super practical to reach into paintings on my own body. So I have choices to make about that.” 

“What happens if you paint something abstract?”

“Weird shit. You know when your hand falls asleep and it gets all pins-and-needles? It’s sort of like that, except also with that feeling when you stub your toe right before the pain kicks in.” 

“So, it sucks, basically.” 

“Yeah, pretty much.” 

I nod and turn back to my work. 

To complete the trio of interruptions, Em joins us as the sun is setting and I hear Florence start dinner. “Can either of you redo my mask?” 

“Sure,” I say. “What do you want?” 

“The paint is chipping is all,” she says, holding it up. “Just the doll-face again.” She’s in full costume save the mask, in a tight miniskirt and hot-pink tank top. She gets to expose more skin that most capes because none of it is her actually appearance. Right now, she’s at least three inches taller, with very long legs and arms, a flat stomach, and a narrow waist--practically a Barbie doll. It’s her usual look for going out as a cape. She rolls her shoulders, and as she does her body starts to--there is no better word for it--slop back into her regular shape. She turns into melted plastic and her body looks as if it’s filling a mold. 

“Damn,” she says. 

“Pushed it too far again?” Etta asks sympathetically. She’s back to her computer, typing away. 

“Yeah, so what if I did?” Em says. “It’s how I’m going to get better.” 

“Can’t argue with that,” Etta says. 

“Here, let me see that,” I interrupt, grabbing Em’s mask. The lips are pretty chipped and the strap holding it on has gone frayed. It definitely needs some work. 

“I’ll do the strap myself. I just need the painting.” 

“I can have it done in three days,” I say. “Last one for drying. I’ll start today. Do you have a spare?” 

“Yeah. I keep extras on hand, I’m not stupid.” 

“Alright,” I say plainly, tappin the plastic exterior of her mask. Perfectly fixable and paintable. 

“Mind if I sit here for a bit?” she asks. “I’ve gotta stitch this all back together.” 

“Go ahead,” Etta says. 

Em plops down at the table with the sewing machine and starts to sew the body armor back into her costume. I don’t know why she bothers; when she’s plastic, a bullet wouldn’t hurt her. Maybe her organs need protection? I’m not sure how Changer-types work, and Em has never exactly been forthcoming. 

The sewing machine chatters away, discordant with Etta’s typing, as Em sews. I keep painting. I don’t make much noise when I paint, besides the quiet beep of my little color meter. 

The sun’s all the way set before anything changes. 

“Hey, dinner’s on the table. Elliot and Catherine and I are eating, you’re all welcome to join.” 

“Coming,” I say. “Give me five to finish up.” 

“Me too,” Etta says, not looking up from her laptop. Her suit is drying on a line behind her, finished before Em joined us. 

“I’ll be down in a few,” Em says. 

Florence nods and heads back downstairs. 

I put my brush in my paint water cup and shake some of the paint-dust off my paint pants. I strip off my smock, pull the pins out of my hair to let it come loose, and return to my room to change into something less colorful (to put it lightly). 

“Mom, my friend Claire says her parents are freelancers. Are they capes, too?” 

“Not necessarily, baby. A freelancer is anyone who works with many clients instead of for one company. Her parents might do some sort of graphics or editing work.” 

Elliot mulls this over, then asks, “Mother, why do you freelance so much?”

“Keeps me afloat, Icy,” Em says. “Gives me something to do when we’re not working other jobs.”

“When I can do this stuff too?” Elliot complains. “I never get to fight!”

“Are you sure about that, baby?” Catherine teases gently. 

Elliot frowns. “That kid deserved it. He was bullying Claire, and I didn’t even use my powers on him.” 

“Baby, we’ve talked about this,” Florence says. “We’re all in a very dangerous line of work and even for us, violence is always our very, very last resort.” 

“The teachers never do anything!” 

Em frowns visibly and Catherine shifts in her chair. Etta bites her lip. Florence doesn’t speak up. 

“I know,” I say. “I’m so sorry, baby. It is a fact of the world we live in that sometimes you do exactly what you’re supposed to and other people don’t do what they’re supposed to--especially big, important people. But that doesn’t mean you need to hurt anyone. I think now that we know, maybe your mom can go talk to the school, because Claire doesn’t deserve to be bullied, and neither do you.” 

“I’m not--” He stops before he goes on. 

“You don’t have to tell me everything, or anything,” I say as gently as I can. “But if the teachers aren’t handling bullying issues, that is something we can talk to them about. Does that sound alright?” 

He nods, looking a little ashamed. It’s toxic masculinity getting to him--he doesn’t want to be weak in front of us. But we’ve taught him how to stand up for his friends, and that’s something. 

“How about ice cream after dinner?” Catherine suggests. “We can celebrate a job well done.” 

“I’d love that,” Florence says. 

“Can we go to Ben and Jerry’s?” Elliot asks eagerly. 

“Sure, Icy,” Catherine says. “I’ll pay.” 

“I have a gig tonight,” Em says. “Do you mind if I come along and leave early?” 

“Of course not,” Florence says. “Etta? Anjila?” 

“Not tonight,” Etta says. “My feet are killing me.” 

“I had a long day of work,” I say. “Have fun, though.” 

Elliot frowns. “Another time?”

“Of course,” Etta promises, with a smile. 

“We should head out, then,” Florence says, checking her watch. “Before they close.” 

“I’ll do the dishes,” I say. “Etta, you should sit down. There’s Epsom salts in my bathroom to soak your feet.” 

“Alright, Ma,” she says. 

“Soak your feet, Etta,” Florence says. 

Etta throws up her hands. “Alright, alright! Jeez, if I didn’t know any better I’d say you were my friends of something.” 

“Come on, I’ll drive,” Florence says, smiling. 

Etta climbs upstairs to soak her feet and the rest of them troop out to the car, leaving me to my thoughts and dirty dishes. 

I don’t mind handwashing, so once the dishwasher’s loaded up I just clean everything else by hand. I know what I’m about to do, but I don’t see my own future-image. I never have. I guess it’s because knowing what you’re about to do isn’t exactly a superpower. 

When the dishes are done, I shake my hands dry and go back upstairs to work more on my painting. 

Etta joins me in the studio a half-hour later, but she doesn’t work. She just sits down on the couch and puts on an episode of one of her sci-fi shows. 

“You know, you could afford to put down your paintbrush for a whole half-hour and watch something with me,” she says. 

“I like painting,” I say. “At least I get to use my degree for something. My second degree, anyway.” 

“I mean, yeah, but come on, you could’ve very easily gone out to ice cream with them.” 

“I could’ve, but I’m really tired. I’m asleep on my feet.” 

“So why are you working?” 

I don’t have an answer for her. 

“Fuck, Etta, you know me way too well.” I sigh. There’s no way to persuade her that I should keep working. She’s way too smart for that. 

“Come on,” she says with a smile. “Sit down.” She pats the couch next to her, and I do. It’s our comfy secondhand couch, and she sets the computer on the table so we can both watch. 

Elliot goes to bed as soon as everyone’s home. I wait up in the studio until Catherine’s in her room and Em’s lights are left on. 

I have another series of nightmares, as is my habit, and wake up feeling no more rested than when I went to sleep.


	4. Stage One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Preparation complete, Midnight starts their heist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guess who's procrastinating on their final literature paper by writing fanfic instead? If you guessed this writer, you're right! 
> 
> Thanks for reading :) Hope you like it!

“We start tonight,” Florence says at breakfast. “So Elliot, you’re going to be home alone until we can come back.” 

“Okay,” he says. 

“You know the rules,” she adds. “And we’ll be back before midnight.” 

“Back before midnight,” he repeats with a smile. It’s our little joke, a promise Florence said she’s been making every time she went out since she started her cape work. 

It’s a Friday, and so everyone at work is chatting about weekend plans. “I’m going to see a movie with my husband,” Susan says. “We’re getting a babysitter, and it’s going to be a date night!”

“Sounds nice,” I tell her. 

“And you?” 

“Oh, I think I’m going to rest up. Spend some time with a couple of my housemates.” 

“That’s nice,” Susan says. “You work hard. It’s good to get some rest.” 

“Yeah,” I agree. 

When I get home, Em’s fixing her face in the full-length mirror in the studio, glancing now and then at a reference image she has. “Hot date?” I ask. 

“Ha ha,” she says. “The mark is treating me to a very fancy dinner and some Shakespeare. We’ll be out for a few hours. If you guys need longer I’ve got a medical emergency all ready to go.” 

“Perfect,” I say. “You’re good at that.” 

“I try,” she says, squishing her nose into the right shape. It’s really weird to watch her mold her own face like this, but I don’t say anything about it. Among other things, it’s pretty obvious that she’s self-conscious about the chemical-type burn all over the left side of her face, and her power lets her make that disappear. “You should get ready.” 

“Yeah.” 

I start gathering up my copied paintings, marking the backs with little pencil M’s so we can tell the difference. None of them are too big, so we should be able to fit everything into one of Etta’a painted storage rooms. Once she gets home. 

“Where’s Etta?” I ask. 

“Don’t know,” Em answers as she adjusts her ears. 

“And Catherine?” 

“Again, don’t know.” 

“What about Florence?” 

“Anjila. I don’t know. They’ll all be back in time. You’re the only one who preps this early besides me, and I’ve got no choice.” 

“At least I’m never late,” I say. 

Em shrugs and starts on her waist. 

Everyone’s home by six, which is exactly as planned. Em was, of course, right. Florence reheats some leftovers and then says, “Alright, everyone. Suit up.” 

Etta loads my paintings into one of hers and then puts that painting in the back of a rental car. One of her fake identities rented the car and Barbie picked it up in disguise, so it’ll never be traced back to us, or so I have been promised. 

Once we’re all suited up, Florence gets behind the wheel and the rest of us take off for the nice part of the city. It’s dark out, and so it’s easy to slip unnoticed over a tall fence. It was a poor choice to grow hedges that block his house from the street, because it means that Florence has all the time in the world to pick his front door lock while Etta disengages various security measures. 

“Okay, there’s a motion sensor just inside every door we have to worry about. Unfortunately I can’t hack into this part of the system, at least not this much. I managed to build a path through the house, but we are going to have to move very carefully. There is an off chance he’s monitoring now from his phone, so we need to be careful.”

“Barbie?” Florence says, tapping her earpiece. 

“Right here, handsome,” she says. 

“He might be monitoring the house from his phone. Tell us if you see him doing anything like that.” 

“You got it,” she says, her voice light. They must be at the restaurant--there’s the slightest bit of background chatter. We’re still good on time, then. 

“Alright, so, window, naturally,” Etta says. “Office should be right…over…here.” 

“Office?” I ask. “Seems awfully risky.” 

“He doesn’t actually keep much there. His laptop is locked in his bedroom and the office has mostly tax records. So, relatively less monitored.” 

I shrug. “Alright.” 

Artemis takes off, light as a feather, for the roof. It’s not power that lets her move like that--just practice and her borderline-dangerously slim build. I’m frankly a little jealous. 

Ferra places a hand strategically on the window and sets off her power. It repels the bolt out of the window lock and from there, she slides the window up and takes out the screen. She sends a pulse of power out to check for wires, but nothing moves. Etta clamps two little alligator clips on the metal window frame and checks a readout. 

“We’re good. No traps.”  

She nods at me and I climb in first, with a little boost from the Artist. I cast a glance around the room and see nothing. No future images, and the only past image is of the mark working at his desk on a laptop I can only barely make out. I give Ferra a thumbs-up. 

The Artist and Ferra climb in after me. Ferra keeps her power on, and the Artist and I keep our eyes out for any movement that might signal metal devices we haven’t yet detected. The Artist has a map of where most sensors are, and a corresponding map through the house, but there’s always an off chance. 

The doorknob is rattling with Ferra’s power, but I grab it anyways and twist it open. It squeaks a little and I wince. 

“Okay. We’re taking ten paintings. Three in the living room, two in the music room, two in the study, and one each in the three spare bedrooms and front hall. We start in the living room, after the office of course. Follow the path. Medium, you go first. Keep an eye on the future. Artemis, eye on the sky.” 

Barbie must scratch her ear, because I catch a snippet of conversation. The mark is completely smitten with her. She must realize what she’s done, because she says, “I have a pair of gold earrings I love.” Gold meaning all’s well. 

“Gold here too,” I say. 

The Artist directs me along each step I take. My drapey layers are tied tighter tonight so a scrap of fabric isn’t caught on camera. Floorboards bend gently under my weight, but they don’t creak. The mark does have a nice house, I’ll give him that. 

“Step a foot to the left,” the Artist says, and I do. 

The Artist follows a path only she can see to the first painting as I stay still and watch, checking each door and window in a cycle. I check for blue and red police lights, the telltale signs of another cape gang, security guards, anything. And I listen carefully to my earpiece for a sign from Barbie that something’s wrong. Ferra follows the Artist, and when they arrive at the first one we’re stealing. I can pick them out quickly and easily because I’ve spent a month studying them. 

Ferra runs her hand around the edge of the painting, feeling for wires. 

“Here.” 

The Artist carefully links the four wires on the edge of the painting so the alarm circuit won’t break. It’s careful work but she manages, and Ferra carefully takes the painting off the wall. “Medium, pencil M’s?” 

“Yep.” No one’s coming. I listen for sirens, but it’s silent. 

The Artist pulls my version from her storage room and, keeping it flat to the wall, hangs it up exactly where the other one was. Then she slides the real version into a different storage room as Ferra slowly and delicately reattaches the alarm circuit wires. 

They move onto the next one, and then it’s time to leave the study. 

“Alright, Artist, you first. Take two steps to your right.” 

I follow her directions, since she has the safe map up on her phone, but it’s tedious work. 

“Almost there?” I hiss, hardly daring to move. 

“Yes,” she says. “Literally just through that door.” 

I sigh and approach the door. 

“Do not grab the knob,” the Artist says. “It’s skin sensitive. Like a touchscreen.” 

“Is it locked?” 

“Probably not.” 

I nod, carefully untie one of my scarves, and wrap it around the knob a few times. When I twist and push, nothing happens. 

“Are we good?” I ask Barbie. “Is he checking his phone?” 

“No, I don’t really like white wine,” Barbie says.

“Okay, living room. He really shouldn’t have bought house blueprints off the Internet,” the Artist says. She glances down at her phone as she and Ferra trace the path behind me. “Medium?” 

“No one and nothing moving. No indication that something will move.” 

“Forwards two feet, then right one foot. Stay close to the wall. If possible, stand on that red armchair.” 

“Um, alright?” 

“I used is as a landmark when I was moving cameras. It’s unobserved.” 

I shrug but do as she says. 

Ferra and the Artist repeat the process, moving as slowly and carefully as possible. 

“I’m so excited to see this play!” Barbie says clearly into the earpiece. “I can’t believe it’s about to start.” 

“Only the best for such a beautiful woman,” the mark says, and Barbie giggles before her voice is gone again. 

“We have time,” Ferra says. “Just the upstairs left. We’re more than halfway there.” 

“I want to get out of here,” the Artist says. “I can’t say why but this place is kind of weirding me out.” 

“Me too,” I agree, casting a wary glance around the place. 

“Um, there might be good reason for that,” Artemis says. 

“What’s up?” I ask, immediately switching into panic mode. 

“Far off for now, but I see a group coming this way. Not police.” 

“Capes or not?” I ask. 

“Hard to tell. You have a little time before shit goes down.” 

“We’re going to get as many as we can,” Ferra says. “Upstairs. We’re moving forward.” 

I don’t like it, but we do have time. That’s why Artemis does the higher lookout. If I had my way we’d leave, and Ferra surely knows it. But she’s in charge and she’s been in this game the longest. I take the lead up the stairs, stepping precisely where the Artist tells me to. 

I check each spare bedroom in turn, and give Ferra and the Artist a nod. 

“Guys, we’re out of time,” Artemis whispers. “It’s the Crooked Ones. They’ve got weapons, and they’re headed this way.” 

“Can you take out Twisted Mind from here?” I ask. 

“I could,” she says cautiously. “That might make it worse. They look pretty pissed.” 

“Ferra, did you check with them?” 

“I tried to. I sent them four messages. They don’t do thefts, anyways. Just…chaos.” 

“Oh, fuck me,” I say. 

“What--oh,” Ferra says. 

“They’re the ones who sent those weird threats to the mark you found, Artist.” 

“Why are they like this?” the Artist groans.

“Doesn’t matter,” Ferra says. “We’ll get that last painting. Then we’ll deal with those crazy fuckers.” 

“Alright,” I say skeptically. 

Ferra and the Artist carefully remove the last painting, and then we’re done. 

“Back out the office,” the Artist says. “And then you need to go back, Artist.” 

“I can fight.” 

“Yeah, but you have our loot. We’ve spent a month on this.” 

“I’ll leave the painting at home and come right back. I’ll tell Ice Ice Baby to bring it in from the back porch.” 

“Fine,” Ferra agrees. “But be careful.” 

“Always am,” the Artist says, climbing out the window. 

“Artemis, we’re going to try to intercept them before they get here, or we’ll be on the hook. Where are they?” 

“Southwest, approaching fast.” 

“We’re leaving the house. Direct us.” 

“I’m going to fight.”

“You powers are better at long range,” Ferra says. “We’ll go.” 

Catherine sighs audibly through her earpiece. “Then go southwest. Twisted Mind is in the lead, Zag patrolling the edges of the group.” 

“Got it,” Ferra says, and then she nods to me. I nod back and we take off for the Crooked Ones, MSP’s “edgiest” gang. We’ve worked too hard for it to all go to shit when those weirdos wreck the house and the mark makes an insurance claim. 

I guess he might get nailed with insurance fraud, but I wouldn’t exactly feel any better. 

“Guys, I’m in the bathroom for intermission,” Barbie says. “You can’t be anywhere close to the house for the fight. I’ll join when the play’s over.” 

“Great, Barbie,” Ferra says. “I’ll tell you where we are when things start to happen.” 

She turns to me. “We’re going to be late home.” 

“Tell Artist to tell Ice Ice Baby.” 

Ferra nods and taps her earpiece to relay the message to the Artist. “I swear things have been getting harder for us lately.” 

I nod. “Someone’s out to get us.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Ferra says.

“Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you,” I caution. 

Ferra sighs. I don’t act paranoid in front of them, even when I feel it, but I think Ferra knows how on-edge I tend to be. 

“We should go,” I say. “Barbie and the Artist will find us.” 

Ferra nods. “Ready to fight?” she asks. 

I pull my weapon, a heavy length of pipe, from where it rests on my belt. “Let’s go.”


	5. The Crooked Ones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Midnight has no choice but to fight the Crooked Ones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just finished a massive project and am about to start another one, but in the meantime, here is a chapter of my current favorite writing project!

Twisted Mind is leading the charge when we arrive, his gang of unpowered weirdos right behind him. He’s never done anything useful in his entire life, I’m pretty sure. I don’t want to fight him since he does sometimes pay us to wreak havoc, but it looks like it’ll have to be done. 

Honestly he’ll probably forget this ever happened. Half the time he contacts us, he’s forgotten we’ve worked for him before. I suspect he fried his brain on drugs long before he triggered. 

“Turn back,” Ferra says. 

“Why?” Twisted mind asks. His voice comes out electronic and strange. There must be a modulator behind his mask. 

“This is our turf tonight. We told you.” 

“We don’t care who’s turf it is.” 

“We’re pulling a job. Leave us alone.” 

“No,” he says. Before Ferra can say anything, I see something out of the corner of my eye. A future-ghost. 

“Zag,” I say, turning around. 

“Medium,” he says, not looking surprised. 

“Were you going to stab us in the back?” Ferra snaps at Twisted Mind. 

“So what if we were?” 

“Alright,” Ferra says. “Let’s do this. Medium, go.” 

Before Zag can act, I lash out with my pipe and hit him on the waist, near the bottom of his ribs. He grunts and doubles over, meaning I did get his liver, then tries to use his super agility to dodge out of my way. I can see what he’s about to do and hold out my pipe so he runs directly into it, winding himself completely. As he falls to the ground, I widen my awareness to see the Crooked Ones surrounding Ferra and me, all of them about to move to fight. 

Ferra’s power turns on, and my phone attempts to flee from me as she repels their various weapons. I turn around so we’re back-to-back and scan around the circle. They’re all about to move in various ways to attack Ferra or me, but I don’t see any coordination (yet). 

One of them will punch my face. I duck to the side, grab his arm, and twist it hard. 

“Ow, what the fuck?” he yells. The next one is a bit smarter (a very little bit) and dives for my legs. I jump out of the way and land directly on his back. I can’t keep my balance, so I jump again and land hard on the pavement as the guy writhes on the ground. I kick him out of the way and look for the next threat. 

Some girl with terrifying face paint lands a lucky hit to my gut, but she misses my solar plexus, so as she goes for a headshot I dodge and get her across the head with my pipe. I don’t see any blood so I assume she’s probably fine and move on. 

Ferra’s power is making my pipe a little harder to control, so I decide to switch. I have another weapon, a length of wood I got from an old shovel. Theoretically I could buy a proper fighting staff or something, but I never seem to get around to it. 

“Wimping out?” Zag taunts as he stands back up. 

“You wish,” I say, keeping my eye on his future image. Before I can deal with him, another Crooked One comes at me, and this one was trained in some sort of martial art because they have a good fighting stance. I can tell they’re about to strike at my neck, which is a clever move. I lunge to the side, but they counter with a wrong-handed hit at my nose. I twist my head just in time for him to smash into my cheekbone instead. 

“Fuck,” I curse. How many are there of them? I cast a glance around the circle and there’s way too many for just the two of us, even though I can see what they’re going to do. I really hope the Artist gets back soon. 

One of them drops inexplicably, clutching at her shoulder. An arrow is sticking out of it. Artemis. 

“Get Zag,” Ferra breathes into the earpiece. “He’s a real pain in my ass.” 

“Got it,” Artemis replies. I can almost hear her taking aim like she does. I imagine I can hear the breath she exhales as she releases her bowstring. 

Zag does not fall. He moves too fast and too unpredictably. He can dodge me because of how damned agile he is. 

“How the fuck,” Artemis says flatly. 

“Never mind him,” I say. “Once the others are down we can get him. Go for the lackeys.”

“What did you call me?” one guy screams. 

I sigh. “A lackey. Come on, do your worst.” I honestly don’t give a shit. 

He lashes out in anger, so he’s easy to predict even without my power. He goes for a chest hit, either calculated to fuck up my heart or just random. I twist to the side and his punch fails to connect. He loses his balance and his eyes widen as I grab his arm and pull him to the ground. His nose might be broken. 

“What the fuck, Midnight?” Twisted Mind shouts. Another one of his members clutches at her shoulder. It’s Artemis’s preferred non-fatal hit. 

“Get out!” Ferra says. 

“Fuck no!” Twisted Mind shouts back. He snaps and his hand lights on fire. 

“Um, guys?” Artemis says. 

“On it,” Ferra says through clenched teeth. 

With that, I turn my attention back to the rest of the lackeys. Two definitively down. The one I stepped on it still struggling to get up. At least ten more, four injured, one down. At least we knew the Crooked Ones have limited numbers. They don’t recruit like other gangs do. 

“Hold off,” Twisted Mind says. “Look, Midnight, can you guys chill?” 

“Stop, Artemis,” Ferra says. 

“Got it,” she says. 

“What the hell do you guys want?” Zag asks. 

“We want you to get out of here.” 

“Why? We were just going to fuck up some rich dick’s shit.” 

“Because this our territory tonight. If you want us to keep working for you, we need some basic respect,” Ferra says. 

“When have you ever worked for me?” he asks. 

“Oh, never mind,” Ferra says, exasperated as people tend to be after dealing with Twisted Mind. “Is there any chance you’ll leave peacefully?” 

“I don’t know that word,” he says. 

“What, peacefully? No shit,” I say. “Too many syllables.”

“We’re only gonna leave here tonight in a body bag.” 

I sigh. Alright, fine. Whatever. Let’s go. 

“Attack, Crooked Ones!” Twisted Minds shouts in his distorted, electronic voice. 

This time they all come at once. Even being able to see what they’re all doing, I know it’s going to be a struggle. Sometimes you can’t avoid a hit when they’re all hitting at once. 

I manage to duck out of the way of the more vicious hits and take only one that lands on my shoulder. I’m fighting at least six people now. I can easily win against one person, but it gets harder as more and more people join in. 

Nonetheless, the six of them aren’t exactly a strategic bunch, and I hear Ferra shout into her earbud, “Artemis, fire at will!” 

One of the four coming at Ferra drops with yet another shoulder wound. Artemis is extremely good at what she does. 

Meanwhile, I keep my eyes on my opponents. If they’ve got any brains, they’ll fight Ferra instead of me. Artemis doesn’t typically defend me much. I can manage. 

I lash out at the closest one and catch him in the throat. Nice. That’s one more down. One good hit is usually enough to freak out someone who’s not used to fights. It looks like Twisted Mind gathered about fifteen people for whatever this mission is, and none of them are good fighters. I don’t understand why he targeted this guy. The mark isn’t special, just young money with a significant art collection. Our opponent seems to care way more than I’d expect from someone whose primary motivation is chaos.  

Zag throws himself back into the fray, dodging me easily. I can’t afford to attempt to fight him--all I can do is dodge. He’s using his agility to duck in front of people he thinks I’m going to aim for. I have to be unpredictable to beat him, which means I have to take more unlikely--and therefore risky--shots. 

I let one of the smaller ones get me in the arm and exchange the mild hit for a jab to another one’s solar plexus. She doubles over and, as she gasps, I hit her again over the back and knock her the ground. As she stands, I see blood spurt from her nose. Very few people will keep fighting with a broken nose, so I consider her down for the count. 

I notice the injured ones regrouping behind Twisted Mind, who seems reluctant to actually throw one of his fireballs. They only appear for a second in his hand, when he has a moment to throw one. I’ve never been hit, but they sure don’t look fun. Maybe he doesn’t want to hit his teammates. As long as I don’t have to worry about one of my scarves catching on fire, I don’t really care. 

The one who had clearly been through some martial arts training grabs at one of my loose ends and I have to spin out of the way. I get a glimpse of a woman who’s about to grab another, to try to spin me the other way I think, and I snap my elbow out to strike her right beneath her sternum. She doubles over, which was my goal, and I see the martial arts man’s future-ghost try to kick me. I step back, shoving the girl forwards, and he follows through the kicks her in the head. 

One of mine drops this time, the martial arts one, an arrow sticking out of his lower leg. He howls and sinks to his knees. I leave the arrow in so he doesn’t bleed out and give him a kick to the back. He scurries away. One more down. 

They’ve now had time to take out their various knives. They can’t hurt Ferra that way, but I’m in no mood to bleed. One of them has a shorter pocket knife, and another has a longer butcher’s knife. I’ve got to take out the bigger knife first. I track her movements, pushing as far into the future as I can, and I see that she’s not going for the kill yet. That’s encouraging. I’ll have to disarm her, though. Ferra’s power will slow the Crooked One down, but I’m not close enough to be fully protected. 

I don’t dare hit her knife with my bare skin, so instead I strike at where her wrist is about to be with my improvised fighting staff. She shrieks and drops the knife. I kick it as hard as I can and watch it skitter away. As she clutches at her wrist, I knock her legs out from underneath her. 

Artemis shoots another of Ferra’s, this time the upper right arm. Ferra’s down to one as the injured ones lie on the ground or limp off. I’ve got two more, plus Zag harassing me as he avoids my hits. I barely manage to dodge him and keep my mind on the situation. 

I curse as one of the two remaining lackeys hits me with a half-decent hit to the ribs. I can’t let Zag distract me. I’m going to have bruises tomorrow. I’d have worse if Twisted Mind had any sense of strategy. 

I use my staff to get one in the knees, ducking out of the way of the other’s punch. I hear Ferra’s hit connect with the crunch of a breaking nose. The one above me stumbles and falls on my back. I feel blood drip onto my face and frantically feel for injury before I realize it’s not my blood. It’s dripping from the shoulder of the person who fell on me. 

I shove them off and glance around. Very few of them are even trying to get back to us. We’re effective when we need to be, I suppose. 

“Disperse, my Crooked Ones!” Twisted Mind calls. “We will fight another day.” He rounds on Ferra and me, now both facing him. Ferra turns her power down, and I feel my phone drop as Ferra stops pushing it away. “Now for you two.” 

“It’s not a fair fight,” Ferra says. “Anyway, we don’t want to fight you.”

“Then why did you beat up my Crooked Ones?” 

“Because you set them on us!” I shout. What a moron. 

“Only because you tried to stop us.” 

“Because this is our territory tonight,” Ferra repeats for the umpteenth time. “We told you!” 

“You might have taken down my Crooked Ones--for now.” Jeez. “But Zag and I can still fight!” 

Zag runs at me, dodges the obvious hit, and then goes for Ferra. Ferra sidesteps him, but he follows her. He drives his fist into her gut, and I see her react, despite the body armor. What an asshole. I step in front of where he’s heading, blocking him, and he slams into me hard. I’ve managed to brace myself for impact, but it still hurts. Zag doesn’t have to slow down to make a tight turn, so he’s full speed when he slams into me. 

I grunt. 

“Did that hurt?” Twisted Mind taunts. 

“Of course it did, moron,” I manage. I watch Zag carefully as I recover as he dodges most of Ferra’s hits. He’s too durable to take down in a fight. We need him still--or moving at normal human speeds, anyways--so Artemis can get him. 

As I’m trying to plan, I see Twisted Mind wind up for a throw. Fuck. He’s going to throw it right at me, to take me out of the fight. But if I dodge out of the way, he’ll hit Ferra. 

I turn and throw myself at Ferra’s back and knock her to the floor. 

“Medium, what the fuck?” Ferra screams as the fireball hits the ground in front of us. The heat washes over me as the smoke makes my eyes tear up. I keep my mouth shut so I don’t choke. 

“Fireballs,” I pant when it’s gone, leaving just a scorch mark on the pavement. “We’re not that armored.” 

I move to stand up, but Zag kicks me before I can make much progress. Asshole. I change my plans and stay curled up on the ground, acting hurt and struggling to stand. 

Zag sees his chance and goes to kick me in the gut. My body armor is there, so he doesn’t really do any damage, but it does suck a lot. I grunt in pain, but behind Zag I can see Ferra slowly get to her feet. She makes eye contact and I wink. She nods, and her future image goes for Zag. I check for Twisted Mind, but he’s hanging back, looking nervously down the street. 

I don’t know what he’s so worried about until, over Zag’s triumphant laughter, a car roars. I glance up and see our rental, with the Artist behind the wheel. I let out a sigh of relief. Now that she’s here, this is going to be easy. 

Zag also looks up at the car, and Ferra takes the moment to grab him, holding him in a backwards bear hug so he can’t escape. From my place on the ground I wrap my arms around his legs and touch my earpiece, shouting, “Artemis, now!” 

An arrow slices through the night and catches Zag just below his knee. He lets out a scream of agony and collapses as we let him go, clutching at the bleeding wound. 

“What the fuck?” he screams. “What--what the fuck?” 

“Go away,” Ferra growls at Twisted Mind. 

He looks cowed, but summons another fireball to throw. 

“Left!” I shout as it leaves his hand, and Ferra dodges out of the way just in time. The car is getting closer. We can’t let it get damaged--we have to give it back as if we just rented a car for a day trip. I try to telepathically communicate the Artist not to actually hit Twisted Mind. 

The car screeches to a halt and the Artist climbs out, pulling her splatter-painted baseball bat out of a painting at her belt. Hell yes. 

“Fuck off!” she shouts, swinging at Twisted Mind. Before he can react, the bat makes contact with his face and there’s the sickening crunch of a nose breaking. As he clutches at it, Artemis shoots again, hitting him in his calf muscle. He collapses, bleeding, and says, “You win this time. But I’ll be back, mark my words.” 

“We don’t care,” Ferra says. “Just go.” 

He tries to glare at her, but his eyes are tearing up so it looks more like Ice Ice Baby when Ferra tells him he can’t have any more cookies. 

I give him another kick for good measure. “Get out of here.” 

He stands up and he and Zag slink away in the opposite direction of the mark’s house. 

“Get in and let’s go home,” the Artist says. “I’m beat.”


	6. Lollipop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fight over, Midnight returns home to find another threat waiting in the wings.

After swinging by to pick up Artemis, Etta drives to the parking lot we agreed on. “We walk from here,” Ferra says. “Keep to the shadows. We’ll go in one at a time.” 

Walking slowly and quietly, we make our way through the suburban streets--well, backyards, really--back home. The lights are still on and the door is closed, but I can tell something’s wrong. Not only are we late, but there’s something colorful smashed on our front porch. 

“Holy shit,” Ferra says. “It’s Lollipop.” 

“Lollipop?” Artemis asks incredulously. “Who the hell is Lollipop?”

“A brute. She grows candy-like armor around herself and is dedicated to helping…children. Oh, fuck,” I say. 

“Do you think…?” the Artist asks, nervous. 

“I’ll take her out,” Barbie says. 

“No, that won’t work,” the Artist says. “She’d know who we are, and that there are villains around here. She might guess that the kid’s being raised by villains, which would mean a call to CPS and some hard evidence to refute. We’d empty out our savings trying to bribe our way out of it.” 

“I could disguise myself,” Barbie says. “That bitch is not going to take our kid.” 

“It’ll make her think something is wrong if we attack, no matter what,” I say. “She needs to know nothing is.”

“What are we going to do?” Artemis asks. 

“Which ones of us look like or are known heroes?” Ferra asks. 

“Me,” Artemis says. 

“I could pull it off,” I add. 

“I’m a rogue for all anyone knows,” the Artist says. 

“We can’t all go in,” Barbie says, grumpy now. 

“If Lollipop finds out about almost half a dozen capes are raising a child, she’ll figure out he has powers and take him to the Wards,” Ferra says. 

“How do you know so much about Lollipop?” Artemis asks, slightly suspicious. 

“I make it a point to keep up with the local hero-types,” Ferra says. She sneaks a little closer. “Alright. I can call in a favor, but I’m going to need a distraction.” 

“Do you have a plan?” the Artists asks. 

“Believe it or not, I do.” Ferra reaches into her bag and pulls out her cell phone. “Everyone’s going to need to be on board. No one is getting taken away tonight. Not on my watch.” 

She whispers a few words to each of us and takes off. 

Barbie molds herself to look like a younger person, a child, and steps onto the street. The Artist slips around to the back of our house, following Ferra, and Artemis sneaks over to a neighbor’s house to climb to the roof. I stay where I am and watch. 

Barbie starts making a racket, wailing and crying and in general making a ruckus. She runs up to the front door of our home and pounds on door. 

The door opens and Lollipop steps out. “What’s wrong, hon?” 

“I can’t get the door open and I left my brother home alone and my mom’s gonna be so angry…” 

Lollipop closes the door behind her and steps out. “Is this your house?” 

Barbie nods tearfully. “I’m sorry!” she wails. 

“Okay, come on, we can figure this out,” Lollipop says. She sits down on the front step as Barbie blubbers, feeding Lollipop information as slowly as she possibly can. 

I hear a tiny tinkle of glass through my earpiece, and a light flicks on upstairs, in the prep room. They’re in. Between Ferra and the Artist, we can get into anywhere, even our own home. I can only hope the Artist will put everything back when she’s done. Lollipop doesn’t notice anything. 

Lollipop and Barbie are not going back inside anytime soon. I see people moving inside, and then a flash of something white. Maybe something gold. Ferra called in a favor, I see. She knows a lot of capes, and a lot of them owe her favors. 

“I just went over here,” Barbie says, taking Lollipop’s hand to lead her away. 

“Go,” I say. 

A figure clad in white and gold and silver opens the front door of our home. It’s Curie. Ferra’s plan suddenly comes into focus. 

“Lila!” Curie exclaims. “Where have you been? I was so worried! You should be in bed when I get back!” 

“I’m sorry, Mom!” Barbie bursts out. “I know I was supposed to watch him but I wanted to go to see Olivia and I got lost and then the door locked and I didn’t know what to do!” 

“Hey, it’s alright,” Curie says gently. She looks up at Lollipop, now standing up to her full Brute height. “I’m sorry to have distracted you. I had some work tonight and my daughter was supposed to watch my son. I was delayed and got back later than I expected. You know how it can be.” 

“It’s perfectly alright,” Lollipop says. “I’m glad everything worked out.” There’s an edge to her voice. She doesn’t trust this situation. Fair enough. She’s smarter than most people give her credit for. 

“Have a nice night,” Curie says. 

Lollipop takes off, jogging down the street to her next destination. Barbie and Curie go back inside. I watch for the next few minutes to make sure Lollipop isn’t coming back, then sneak around the house and unlock the back door. Curie’s left, presumably too busy to stay. Professional heroes always have something to do. 

“Holy shit,” Artemis says, slipping in through a window. “That was almost really bad.” 

Elliot’s shaking. 

“Hey, baby, it’s okay,” I say. “Your moms know what to do when stuff like this happens.” 

“I’m sorry we got back so late,” the Artist says with a wince. “Were you scared?” 

“Not really,” he says. I’m reasonably sure he’s lying, but I don’t want to make him feel worse. “You always come back. I went out to get a candy bar from the gas station and I guess she saw me and followed me home.” 

Ferra has joined us from upstairs, changed into her civilian clothes. “Baby, I told you never to leave the house when we’re out!” 

“But I was hungry!”

“There’s food in the house.” 

“Well, I wanted candy!” 

“And you nearly risked everything! Elliot, I am trying to keep you safe. We all are. That’s why we’re your moms--because we all care about you.” She crouches down to look him in the eye and says, “I need you to understand that I’m trying to take care of you. I don’t make up these rules for no reason. It’s because I love you. We all do.” She stands back up. “Go to your room. Now.” 

“But--”

“Now,” she says, her tone dangerous. 

He does. 

Ferra collapses into one of the armchairs in the living room, buries her head in her hands, and starts crying quietly. 

“Hey there,” Artemis says gently. “It’s okay. We’re okay. Even if Lollipop suspects, there’s no reason to think that she’d come back, and CPS definitely do not have a reason to take him away.” 

“She’s right,” Ferra says hopelessly. 

“What the fuck?” Barbie asks. “No, she’s not. She looks out for kids, and that’s important, but she was wrong here.” 

“He’s ten and he walked to the gas station by himself in the middle of the night.”

“He has powers,” I say. “No one can hurt him. The second they tried to touch him he’d freeze them and then shatter them.” 

“Hey, Florence, you’re not a bad mom,” Artemis says. “He’s got powers. It’s hard to deal with that under any circumstances.” 

“There are five of us,” Florence says. “I have all the help in the world and I still can’t raise my own child.” 

“Florence,” the Artist says. “We’ve hard a long night. Please, get some rest. We can talk about this in the morning. You’re not a bad mom, and we all just do our best. Elliot’s fine.” 

“Yes…yes, you’re right. We’ll debrief tomorrow. Jeez. Goodnight, everyone.” 

She limps over to her room before anyone can ask her about the blood on her leg. 

“Um, one of the windows upstairs is broken,” Etta says. “Florence cut herself getting in.” 

“Which room?” I ask. 

“The studio.” 

I nod. “I’ll lock it up tonight and patch it up tomorrow morning. Is the electronic security still in place?” 

Etta nods. 

Em shifts foot to foot, uncomfortable. “I’m going to bed. Goodnight.” 

“I’m gonna change and give it another try,” Catherine says softly. 

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” I caution. 

“She might need a friend right now,” Catherine says. “If she doesn’t want me to I’ll just go to bed myself. But…I was pretty scared. I can only imagine how it was for Florence.” 

The Artist and I look at each other and then nod. 

“Good luck, Catherine,” I say. 

The Artist and I silently climb to the prep room, change, and walk to my room. 

We sit on my bed for a long time. 

“Are we ever going to be enough?” I ask. 

“What do you mean?” 

“We’re capes. We’re busy. And I was never going to be a good mother. Are we ever going to be enough for Elliot?” 

She opens her mouth, her face telling me she’s going to refute me, but she doesn’t. She shuts it again, and before she can speak I say, “You don’t have to reassure me. We all worry about this, I know. It’s hard being a parent, it’s hard being a cape, it’s hard parenting a kid with powers, and we have to do all of those things. I don’t know. I just want to do right by him. You know?”

“I know,” Etta says. “When we left the Professionals it was because we had moral compasses. I want to do right by him, too. It’s just hard to know, sometimes, what that is.” 

I nod. 

“I hope Florence is alright,” I say. 

“I’m sure she is. She and Catherine knew each other before either of them knew us--I know Catherine can help her.” 

“Yeah. I guess.” 

Etta and I sit, not moving, on my bed for a long while. Etta blinks hard, then says, “I--I’m going to bed. I think I need to think some stuff over.” 

“Yeah,” I say. “Things are going to change. They’re gonna have to.”


	7. Home Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anjila runs some errands. Midnight starts a new plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while! Sorry for the delay. Quantum mechanics kicked my butt this term. I'd love to promise that I'll post more soon, but I have Contemporary Experimental Physics With Lab next term, so...we'll see. Thanks for sticking with me!

“So, what’s next?” Catherine asks at breakfast. 

“Laying low for a couple of days, watching the news for something about a theft or about Twisted Mind,” Florence says practically. 

“I mean after that,” Catherine complains. 

“I’m going to talk to Heretic and see if I can use Curie for info on those neo-Nazi sons of bitches,” Florence says. “Just rest this weekend.” 

“I can finally take my normal shifts back, then,” Catherine says. 

“I’ll be downtown,” Etta says. 

“I have jobs today and tomorrow,” Em says. 

“Anjila?” Florence asks, turning to me. 

“Um.” I don’t have plans. All four of my friends are sitting at the table with me. “I’ll get to work on…something.” 

“Who’s gonna drive me to Claire’s house?” Elliot asks, his tone growing irate. 

“Me,” I say immediately, to avoid staying home all day with nothing to do like the lame not-yet-thirty-year-old I am. 

“Thanks Ma,” Elliot says, a touch of affection in his voice. I know he’s going to lose that soon. He’s growing up, and that means he’s going to be a teenager who doesn’t let any of his moms hug him anymore. 

Not to be melancholy or anything, though. 

Elliot finishes breakfast, bolts to his room, and returns with his bright primary-colored backpack. “It’s got my DS,” he says importantly. “Cuz we’re going to play Pokémon.” 

“Oh? Who’s on your team?” 

“Onyx! And I have a Lucario too, it’s so great!” He’s still talking about Pokémon when I tell him to buckle up and start my car. 

“So, Elliot, what homework do you have this weekend?” 

He makes a face at me. “I don’t know.” 

“You don’t have to do it now, but you do have to do it,” I say gently. 

“Well, I don’t want to. It’s dumb,” he sulks. 

“Your teacher said you aren’t finishing your homework. Especially your math.” 

“I don’t like math! It’s hard. And there’s no point.” 

“There is a point. I know it’s hard, Icy, but we can help you if you like.” 

He frowns again. “I don’t need any help.” 

“Alright, but if you do, just let us know. Oh, here we are.” 

“Thanks Ma,” he says, throwing his backpack over his shoulder. 

“I love you, baby,” I say. 

“Love you too, Ma,” he says, a little reluctant. He kisses me on the cheek and closes the door behind him. 

Alone in the car, I drum my fingers on the steering wheel. I could go home. I don’t know what I’d do there besides stand in front of my easel and stare at a blank canvas. I guess I could run some errands. We need cereal and fresh fruit, and we have a few library books to return. I think my dry cleaning is done, too, and I am almost out of nice suits for work. 

I stop by the house and grab the errands list off the kitchen island, the library books out of the family room, and the reusable bags from the laundry room. Might as well get something done today, like literally everyone else in my household. 

My first stop is the dry cleaner’s. I have to drop off my good saree, too, so it can get cleaned. One of my cousins is getting married in a month, meaning I will again be interrogated about when I’m getting married, and inevitably later my father will ask me when I’ll find a nice man to settle down with, as he often does during our weekly call. 

“Hayer,” I say. “I should have a few skirt suits, and I’m dropping this off for cleaning.” 

The man behind the counter nods and returns a few minutes later with all my best suits. I have a couple of meetings this week that I need to be at the top of my game for. It’s a bit like putting on my costume: the nice clean suit I wear is my costume for these meetings. 

The suits tucked away, I head for the grocery store next. With six of us, we need plenty of food. 

I always wonder when I’m in the crowded Cub on a Saturday who else might be a cape. I’d never know. You can’t tell just from looking if someone has suffered immensely. With the exception of Em and her chemical burn, my friends and I look completely normal. I don’t even know much about their triggers. Florence has mentioned a car crash, and Catherine I know was stalked somehow. Etta told me she had an incident with an ex, but no further details. And while Em has never been forthcoming, I know she hasn’t spoken with any of her family in years. 

I’ve had it the easiest. I’ve read up on cape forums and most people have had it so much worse than me. 

I check the label on the pasta. Whole-grain, perfect. Florence can be very picky about these things. 

I was dumb. I should’ve known. I should’ve let Jassi give me a ride home. I went ahead and assumed, like an idiot, that my neighborhood was safe enough to walk home alone. I even left my headphones in so I could listen to my moody high school music. What the hell was I thinking? I’d be furious if Elliot ever tried something like that. I could kick seventeen-year-old me. 

But in the end, nothing bad happened to me. I was fine. I remember feeling the heavy iron crowbar in my hands, breathing hard as I stood there. The last one standing. I never got in any trouble, since I had obviously been acting in self-defense and none of them were seriously hurt. I was fine. My friends have had it much, much worse. 

I pick up more curry powder, of course. I may not see my parents much these days, but I do miss my mom’s cooking. Now I make it myself. 

I don’t know Elliot’s trigger event, either. He’s got a bit of an odd power, so something must be a little odd, but he never talks about it and I’m reasonably certain Florence would not like me asking. And I would never ask Elliot. He’s a kid. 

Almond milk for Etta, since she’s lactose intolerant. Some salted and unsalted butter, for bread and baking respectively. A tube of croissant dough, for the hell of it. 

I’ve never been more afraid than when I felt that hand on my wrist. It was like a needle through my gut, my whole head going fuzzy and buzzy. I remember my heart pounding in my throat, and I know I should’ve gone all fight-or-flight but I felt frozen in place. I might as well have been a mannequin for all the good my muscles did me in that moment. I wanted so badly to run, run faster than I ever had before, but before I could get that thought through to my adrenaline-riddled brain the man had an arm around my waist and it was all over. I wasn’t tiny back then like Jassi, but I wasn’t exactly strong. I was a theater kid. I was pathetic. Still today someone could grab me off the street again and I wouldn’t even trigger this time. 

I also grab a bunch of bananas for breakfasts and three bags of lettuce for salads. With that, my grocery list is done and I can check out. 

Groceries in my trunk, I swing by the library to drop off the books. Next is the pharmacy. Elliot needs vitamin D supplements, and Etta needs her good shampoo. Florence has written down something about decongestants, so she’s getting Mucinex. And I’ll get a candy bar, for myself. 

Back at home, I put away the groceries in a silent kitchen. The last box of cereal makes a tiny little click as I put it away. You could hear a pin drop. 

A familiar prickle crawls up the back of my neck. I feel alone, but I don’t think I am. I turn up my awareness of my power and keep my eyes peeled, looking for anyone who doesn’t live in my home. I grab a kitchen knife and hold it out, ready to fight anyone who has dared break into our home. 

Keeping my back to the walls, I start in the kitchen, throwing open the cabinet doors. Then the TV room, checking in every cabinet and under the couch. I proceed easily through the downstairs, checking each common room, because there are not many hiding places downstairs. I can’t check anyone’s bedroom, though. 

There’s no one upstairs, either. But I can’t be certain, since I can’t check the bedrooms or bathrooms. So once my own bedroom and bathroom are clear, I lock my door. Then, feeling nervous, I take my laptop with me into the bathroom and lock that door, too. Laptop, phone, kitchen knife. I can fight my way out of this. 

The house is still silent. 

The seconds tick away, and nothing seems to move. The heating lets out a creak. A floorboard settles, or perhaps someone takes a step. I don’t know. I can’t tell. The back of my neck is tingling still and I can feel the tension in my shoulders. I can’t relax, not now. Not if someone’s in here. It’s my home. It’s supposed to be safe here. I would never forgive someone who broke in here. 

Keeping the knife clenched in my hand, I sit down on the bath mat and turn on some music, quietly. I won’t be able to work, not when I have to be on the lookout. Just in case. 

The front door lock mechanism starts to move. A few clicks. The door opens, then shuts. The footsteps are soft, gentle. It could be Catherine, ever light on her feet. It could be any of my friends wearing their socks. Or it could be a burglar who’s hacked our home security and is here to reveal us and take Elliot or just kill us. Who knows? 

The footsteps move along the hallway and then, quietly, up the stairs. My breath is tight in my throat. I clench the knife tighter and curl my toes, positioning myself to fight. The tingling won’t go away. As the footsteps grow closer, I feel frozen in place by the fear as my heart rate spikes, pressing up into my throat and down into my stomach. My heart is huge, taking up too much space in my insides and squeezing the breath from my lungs. I can’t think. The footsteps are right outside my door. 

They pass by. The door to the studio opens, and I hear the distinctive sound of our old couch being flopped down upon. 

Holding the knife behind my back, I quietly unlock my bathroom door, then my bedroom door. I peak around the corner into the studio, prepared to fight for my life. 

Catherine is lying on the couch on her phone, her earbuds in. 

I slip back downstairs, tuck the knife back into the knife block, and go to join Catherine in the studio. 

“Hi Anjila!” she says, pulling out an earbud. “Ugh, that shift was so boring. I had no idea how slowly old people can eat when they put their minds to it.” 

“Slow morning?” 

“Like you wouldn’t believe.” She throws her arms over the arm of the couch, lying sprawled over everything as if she’d just fainted in an old movie. “I hate this job sometimes.” 

“And yet you won’t quit,” I say. 

“Get off my ass,” she says, irate. “I’m twenty. I’m an adult. I can make my own choices.” 

“I didn’t mean to say you can’t,” I say evenly. “I just don’t get why you’d keep doing something you don’t like when you have other options.”

“You keep your job.” 

“Tax reasons,” I say simply. “And I still have debt left over from college and grad school.” 

“Well, I have my reasons,” she says. She summons her bow with an arrow nocked and draws it back, pointing it idly at the ceiling. “Anyways, I was never going to amount to much.” 

“Don’t say that,” I say, surprised. Catherine may act a bit ditzy, but she’s got a good head on her shoulders. “You’re smart.” 

“Eh,” she says. “I was alright in school. Anyways, I do this now. It’s not a big deal.” 

I can feel that it is, but decide not to press her further. She has her reasons. We all have our strange hang-ups, I guess. 

“What about you? What have you been doing?” 

“Not much. I ran the errands we needed to do. I got your cereal, although I don’t know why you like it.” 

“It’s good, that’s why!” 

“It’s just sugar.” 

“Yeah, that’s why it’s good.” 

I shake my head. “I’m sticking with my breakfast foods.” 

“When’s Elliot getting picked up?” 

“Whenever he texts us. I’ll pick him up.” 

“Hm,” Catherine agrees. “Does that TV work?” 

“Catherine, we have lived in this house with that TV in that corner for three years.” 

“Yeah. Does it work?” 

“I think so. We never use it. I think it’s from Etta’s old studio.” 

“Why’d she have a TV in her studio?” 

“Well, she lived in her studio, so.” 

Catherine shrugs and walks over to fiddle with the old TV. It’s the cathode-ray type, shaped like an old computer, and the picture is crap, but it is apparently hooked up to cable. 

“Hell yeah, HGTV,” Catherine says. “House Hunters is my jam.” 

I shrug. I don’t watch much TV myself. I might just read a book. 

“I’m home!” Florence shouts, distracting me from my book. 

“Up here!” Catherine shouts back. 

Florence climbs the stairs and sits on my painting stool, facing Catherine on the couch and me on my armchair. “We’re on for Wednesday,” she says. “Those Neo-Nazi sons of bitches are planning a…an event Wednesday night. We’re going to stop them.” The contempt is clear in her voice. 

“Will Curie be there?” I ask. 

“No. This is a Midnight mission. The plan is to stop them before they start. We’ll stake out the area, locate the group--we know their leaders’ cape identities--and when they start to gather, we’re going to get in their way and stop them.” 

“It’s as easy as that?” Catherine asks. 

“Probably not, but we’re going to try.” 

“We’re going to stop them,” I say. 

“Of course we are,” Catherine agrees. “We’re not going to let them hurt anyone else.” 

“No we’re not,” Florence agrees, nodding at me. 

After a beat of quiet, our phones all buzz at once. It’s Elliot. 

“I’ll go get him,” I say. “Tell Etta and Em that I’m in.” 

Florence nods. “Drive safe.” 

“I always do when he’s in the car.” It makes Florence feel better to remind her. 

It’s not a long drive to Elliot’s friend’s house. Elliot’s thrilled to tell me all about the Pokémon battles he won. “My Lucario had fainted but I still had my Blaziken so I kicked that Deoxys’s butt! It was awesome!” 

“That sounds amazing, baby,” I say. “So you won?” 

“Yeah,” he says. “Claire and me are a really good team.” 

I grin. “I’m glad you had fun.” 

“Do I still have to go to swimming lessons tonight?” 

“Yes. Swimming is important to learn. We don’t want you to drown.” 

“Ugh.” He rolls his eyes and crosses his arms. “Fine.” 

“We’ll get ice cream afterwards.” We don’t usually do this, but the poor kid’s so sick of swimming lessons. We need to find a better swim school. 

He grins. “Okay.” 

Back home, Etta and Em are in the studio on their various perches--Etta on her painting stool, Em in the armchair. Florence is standing up, so I take back my painting stool. 

“Moms? What are you doing?” Elliot asks. 

“We have a job on Wednesday,” Florence says. “We’re going to get you a babysitter this time. And we won’t be late. We just need to do a little planning.” 

“Can I stay here?” 

“No, baby,” I say immediately. 

“We’ll be right down,” Florence promises. 

“Fine,” Elliot complains, leaving for downstairs. 

“Let’s move to the prep room,” Etta suggests. “It’s…quieter.” She means soundproof. If Elliot knew what we were up to, he’d be scared. And he could very easily eavesdrop. 

Florence nods, and we move. 

“We’re going up against those neo-Nazi sons of bitches,” Florence explains. “They’re planning some sort of ‘event’ downtown.” 

“You have got to be kidding me,” Etta says. “Again?” 

“I know,” Florence says. “Believe me, I know. The things those people have said to my baby…” 

We all nod. We all know what those people have said to Elliot. 

“So, we meet at five-thirty for dinner. We prep at six and leave by six-thirty. Hopefully we’ll be home by eleven, but I’ll tell the babysitter midnight. She’ll get here at six-thirty, so you all need to be out of the house by then.” 

“Naturally,” Etta says. “Do we need any costume maintenance between now and then? Anjila and I can get it done.” 

“My mask, again,” Em says. “It keeps chipping.” 

“I think it’s because you keep getting into melee-type fights,” I say. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Em says. 

“My tunic needs a new hem,” Catherine says. “And my laurels are fading.” 

“My body armor’s come loose, and the mask strap has gone loose,” Florence offers. 

“Alright, so we’re a regular costume shop for the next couple of days,” Etta says. “Everyone just leave your things in the studio. I’ll fix everything that needs fixing.” 

“I’ll help out,” I say. “Are we doing things the same way we always do?” 

Ferra nods. “Unless anyone’s decided on a big appearance change.” 

We all shake our heads. 

“Alright. Medium, recon. Follow their trails and find out what they’re planning.”

“You got it.” 

“Artist, see what info you can get online. See if you can track down their computers.” 

Etta gives a thumbs-up. 

“Barbie, infiltration. Do you have an identity that could get in to their group Monday and Tuesday?” 

“Yeah. I’ll get it done.” 

“Great. And Artemis, I need you to keep an eye on the area when you have time. Just make sure nothing kicks off early.” 

“You bet!” she says. 

“We’re starting tomorrow. We can’t afford any lost time. Everyone get ready. On Wednesday, we’re going to have to fight.”


	8. Human Shields

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Midnight is ready to fight those neo-Nazi sons of bitches.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Hope you like this one. I'm not doing arcs so much but I'll probably have some flashback chapters coming up soon.

There’s a tension to the house on Wednesday. Dinner conversation is entirely Elliot talking about his day and the rest of us responding with our various agreements. I now feel that I know lots about Pokémon. 

At six, all of us save Florence kiss Elliot goodnight and go up to our prep room. The costumes are all mended. Everything is neat and ready to go. 

We are not a cohesive-looking group. Artemis dresses like the Greek goddess her name is from; Barbie dresses like a sexy version of the doll her name is from; I dress up like a sideshow medium; the Artist wears her painted bodysuit with a cream-colored skirt and suspenders over it; and Ferra wears her metallic-leather armored costume. We don’t look like one group. We look like a bunch of capes ran into each other one day and decided to work together for just one mission. 

It’s sort of true. Anyways, we’re all established. We can’t change now. 

The Artist loads up her canvases with her various weapons--her signature spray-painted baseball bat, pepper spray, a heavier metal bat, knives, and a couple smoke bombs to use as a last resort. Artemis summons her bow with the arrow on it, puts it away, and then summons it again. She draws back the bow, aims it, and then exhales, just about to fire. She looks down the scope she can attach to her bow (not for aim, just for spying) and announces, “Good to go.” 

“Good,” Barbie says. She finishes squishing her face around and starts braiding up her hair to go under her wig. Her weapon, a heavy police-type baton, is hanging from her belt loop. Barbie’s toyed with the idea of getting a gun, but in the end none of us can afford to look bad in case of a shooting. I only have my metal bat and wooden staff. I check the folds of my scarves and find all my usual supplies: phone, knockout drugs, fishing line, flashlight, first-aid supplies, emergency pepper spray. 

Ferra straps on the last piece of her armor, her wrist guards, and stretches. “Alright. Everybody suited up?” 

We nod our confirmation. 

“Then let’s go. I know this is going to dangerous, but we are going to stop them, and we are going to make it back just fine. Everyone know the plan?” 

We all nod again. 

“Clock starts now. Let’s go.” 

We all slip through the back door and make our way downtown, sticking to the shadows. Artemis takes off, as fast as possible, headed for a perch. The four of us left fan out. Ferra takes north, Barbie east, the Artist west, and I take south. Artemis settles on top of an apartment building and begins her stream of updates. 

“Gathering starting at the corner of Bloomington and east twenty-fourth. I’m seeing some red, white, and black. Bald heads. I’m seeing some of that shiny metal armor we know and hate. I’m pretty sure--yeah, that’s Vice. Confirm, Vice has metallic bands around his arms and legs and a dark mask.” 

“Confirm,” Ferra says. 

“Good. Oh, shit. I’m seeing a white bubble--Ivory. Surrounding the main members. I don’t have eyes on Vice or Pursuit anymore. Confirm, Pursuit wears a metallic silver bodysuit and black boots with red laces?” 

“Confirm,” Ferra says. 

“Eyes on the white bubble. They’re moving south down Bloomington. Best guess is they’re heading for Stewart Park. Converge.” 

We all move closer, trying to avoid notice. I’m south, so I start up Bloomington more slowly. Ferra will be heading south and Barbie west at top speed, while the Artist heads east more slowly. We’ve drilled on these commands a lot before. We know what we’re doing. 

“Let’s try for a confrontation at Bloomington and east twenty-sixth,” Ferra says. 

“White bubble moving along Bloomington. Converge,” Artemis says. 

“Cowards,” Ferra mutters under her breath. 

The four of us converge again. I’m just a block from where we want the confrontation to be. I pull out my metal pipe. There’s no reasoning with them. Ferra will try--she always does--but we’re going to have to fight them. 

“You’re almost there. White bubble is in the middle of the unpowered lackeys. May have to fight your way to the middle. Anjila, you’re closest. Get ready.” 

“Got it,” I say. 

“This is big,” the Artist says. 

“Is it too big?” Artemis asks. 

“No,” Ferra says. “We’re going to do this. Confirm.”  

“Confirm,” I say. 

“Confirm.” 

“Confirm.” 

“Confirm.” 

“Then Anjila, you’re right there. They should be in your sight.” 

“They are.” 

I peek out from behind the building where I’m hiding. There are at least thirty of these creeps marching down the street. I see red and black flag with horrible symbols on them and I bite down hard on my tongue. I hate them so much. I hate them for everything they’ve done to me and the people I love. I don’t know which one of them grabbed me that night, but I know why. A little brown girl walking alone? How could they not? 

“Deep breaths, everyone,” Ferra says. “We’re going to go about this with as little collateral as possible. Medium, Artist, I want you to get in front of them and block them. I’m going to try to talk to them. Artemis, cover me.” 

“Got it.” 

“Medium, go,” the Artist says. 

I step out into the middle of the street, directly into the path of the bastards. A few of them see me, and try to turn. They see the Artist on the other road, and then Ferra’s voice rings out. 

“We don’t have to fight tonight. You can all turn around and go home. Leave your flags and your pamphlets and go home, and we won’t chase you--not tonight.” 

No one responds. 

“Vice, I know you’re in that bubble. Come out and talk to me.” 

The bubble vanishes and Vice appears, with Ivory and Pursuit on either side. Virtue is with them, too, behind them. She has fewer fighting capabilities, but somehow she always comes out with her reputation unscathed. I think hate her the most. She deserves the same bad rep as the rest of them. 

“What do you want, Ferra?” 

“I want you to disperse and go home. This is not okay, what you’re doing here. But tonight, no one needs to get hurt. If you all leave, we will, too. We won’t chase you. We’ll let you go peacefully. But only if you go, right now.” 

“What are you?” Pursuit snaps. She lists off a few slurs and I wince behind my mask. 

“Calm down, Pursuit. Ferra, why should we do this?” 

“Because you have to know that this is wrong. And because you don’t want to fight us. We’ve fought before. You know what we’re capable of. You don’t want to fight us.” 

“I do,” Pursuit says. 

I roll my eyes. She wants to fight everyone. Pursuit is like Artemis if Artemis was an asshole and an idiot. 

“We’re not doing anything except what needs to be done,” Vice says. 

“Back down now or we will fight,” Ferra says. 

“Then put up your dukes, Midnight,” he threatens.  

“What a stupid name,” Ivory sneers. “Midnight?” 

“Trust me, yours is worse,” I say. 

“We’re engaging,” Ferra says into the earpiece. “Let them throw the first punch. As soon as that bubble goes up, Artemis, I want you to fire on the crowd. Nonfatal, please.” 

“As always.” 

“Let’s go.” 

“Attack!” Vice shouts, and Ivory puts the forcefield back in place. Using the unpowered as human shields is cowardly and unethical (to say the least), but I don’t really mind punching a couple of racists. 

Artemis’s arrows fly into the crowd, sending them into a frenzy as they come at us. Fuck me, they have guns. With Ivory and his white bubble in the middle, the crowd splits into four and comes after the four of us. I can’t see the rest of Midnight through the crowd, so I focus on the eight coming at me. We can’t strategize if we can’t communicate. One of the assholes holds up a pistol, aiming for where I am right now. At the last minute, I dodge out of the way and the bullet whizzes uncomfortably close to the top of my head. I think one of my scarves is singed. 

With the advantage of future-sight, I dodge three other hits, although I’m not getting in any of my own. I’m far enough from Ferra that I can use my metal pipe, so I unhook it from its loop inside my scarves and prepare to hit back. 

Someone comes at me with a long, sharp knife. I can’t let that get close to me--I don’t want to bleed out before we can go up against the capes. I swing my pipe and make contact with his wrist, forcing him to drop the knife. While I was doing that, though, another asshole snuck up behind me and now strikes me between the shoulder blades. I gasp as the hit lands and swing around, brandishing my pipe. Shit, I’m surrounded. These eight are smarter than the last group I fought, and this time I’m alone. I can’t afford to stay in one place. I need to get somewhere defensible--out of this circle of hell. 

“Artemis, I need support!” I say into my earpiece. 

“Got it,” she says. A split-second later, an arrow strikes the one directly in front of me in the shoulder and the circle breaks. I shove my way past the wounded man and swing around to hit the two to either side before they can come for me. Unfortunately, this is not a one-good-hit situation. These people are more determined than that. I catch both of them in their guts, but they keep coming. 

I tune out the earpiece and focus on the seven people in front of me. My back is to the empty road now, so I can press them back. Collateral to a minimum. 

Another one aims a gun at me. I dive out of the way and crash into a woman with a blonde braid. I grab her braid and yank as hard as I can, making her scream in pain. While she’s distracted, I punch her in the nose. I hear it snap and blood spurts onto her face and my hands. She screams again, clutching at her face and clawing at mine. My mask protects me, but she does catch on one of my scarves and yank on it. They’re too well tied to come off, but it throws me off balance enough for someone to get off a gunshot without me seeing it. It smacks into my vest, knocking me back into the girl. 

I scramble to my feet and kick the girl in the stomach one last time for good measure, then wheel around to face the rest of my attackers. They’ve been kicking at me while I had the girl, but my body armor protected me. Now I have to fight back. 

One of them shouts a slur at me that I’m pretty sure doesn’t actually apply, so I lash out at that one first. I see that he’s about to dodge left, so at the last second I shift my momentum and hit to the left. He gasps, but before I can follow up, something hits my shins and I fall over. I use my arms to roll and then flip over onto my back before anyone can hit me again. They start kicking and I grunt, trying to protect my head from their blows. I can’t stand up. They won’t stop kicking. 

One of them lets out a shout and clutches at his shoulder. Artemis. This moment of distraction is all I needed to get to my feet, essentially doing a hardcore pushup. I swing my pipe to catch one of them in the solar plexus, hoping to knock them breathless. 

“Report!” Ferra shouts. 

“Three down, six up,” I say. 

“Two down, six up,” the Artist says. 

“Three down, five up,” Barbie says. 

“Nine good arrows,” Artemis says. “Nine regular arrows.” 

“Four down, four up,” Ferra finishes. “We’re doing good. Keep fighting.” 

Not that we have much of a choice. 

I go for the head with the next one. He ducks down, so I bring the pipe down harder. It slams into his skull and I hear a crack. His eyes go unfocused and he’s down. That’s probably serious. Too bad for him. He shouldn’t have been in my way. 

The four injured who can’t fight anymore have limped out of the way, but the five left have surrounded me again. Great. A true skinhead comes for me with a knife--shorter, but still sharp--as if to slice across my face. He must know I’m wearing a mask under the thin veil, making this effort pretty fruitless. So when he gets close, I grab his wrist and twist. He drops the knife, which I scoop up and throw as far away as I can. “Fuck you!” he shouts. 

“Coward,” I say, punching him in the gut while he’s near me. 

“Coward? You’re the coward! Wearing a--” He pauses to pant for breath. “A mask to fight?” 

“What about Vice?” 

Before he can respond with some hypocritical, racist bullshit, I break his nose with my pipe and kick his legs out from under him. He’s down. Four to go. 

The white bubble hasn’t moved. I suppose Vice is counting on the sheer numbers to throw us off. We’ll have to fight our way through them to get to the real problem. The capes might get in on this once it becomes clear that we’re going to win, but it’s hard to know for sure. They might wait for us to get through the first layer of defense before they attack. 

“Report!” Ferra shouts again. 

“Five down, four up!” I shout, and then I tune out. I can’t afford to drop my focus for a second. 

The man with the pistol aims at me again. I duck at the very last second, hoping I can get him to use up his bullets. Son of a bitch doesn’t deserve a gun. Who the hell gave him one? In the meantime, I swing my pipe at the man closest to me. It doesn’t hit him, but his frantic dive tips his balance. As the gunman takes aim again, I throw myself into the off-balance one and slam his head into the pavement, face first. He groans and I take the opportunity to pull his head back by the hair and slam it down again, getting even more blood on my hands and costume. We’re going to need to do so much laundry tonight. That’s three left. 

They’re starting to look scared, maybe because I’ve gotten a bunch of their teammates. Good. They should be scared. 

“Come on!” I shout. “Come fight me!” 

After a brief hesitation, a man comes towards me. I throw out my pipe and step to the side, and he runs directly into it, winding himself. I yank the pipe upwards and catch him under the chin, throwing his head back. The snap seems to disorient him, so I take the moment to scratch my fingernails along his face. He screams and tries to claw me back, but again, they all seem to forget I’m wearing a mask. 

“Idiot,” I say, punching his nose, too. I shove him to the ground, where he rests, dazed.

Only two left. “Report,” Ferra says, calmer now. 

“Seven down, two up,” I say, a hint of pride in my voice. 

“Six down, two up,” the Artist says. 

“Six down, two up,” Barbie says. 

“Seven good arrows, six regular arrows,” Artemis reports. 

“Seven down, one up,” Ferra finishes. “We’re doing good. Keep up the good work, everyone.” 

“Yeah,” the Artist pants. “That’s the plan.” 

I imagine Ferra smiles at that. 

My last two decide to attack both at once, which is reasonably strategic of them, except I can see what they’re about to do and I easily slip between them before lashing out with my pipe. I knock the smaller one off his feet and kick him in the face once he’s on the ground. He screams and tries to stand, but I kick him again to keep him down. He gasps for breath before limping over to join his shitty friends in their wounded heap on the sidewalk. 

The larger one, the last one standing, lets out a yell and comes at me without any sort of plan. That makes him very easy to stop. He’s not paying attention to my real movement, so when I feint left he follows me. I step right instead, hit him in the kidney with my pipe, and clock him in the meat of his cheek. He’s so angry he hardly notices, but again, angry is good for me. I can see what angry will do, because angry isn’t strategic. Well, he’s angry and privileged, I suppose. I’m furious with him but I’m not acting it. 

He shouts a slur that, once again, I don’t think applies to me. I suppose they’ll hit one eventually, but I don’t care to stick around and find out. As he comes at me, I step out of his way  while leaving my pipe behind. He trips catastrophically, landing on his face and howling with pain. 

“Shut up,” I say, slamming his face into the ground again. “Zero up,” I report. 

“Advance to center,” Ferra breathes. 

“Bubble coming down,” Artemis says. 

I take a few slow steps towards Vice and the rest of his crew, trying to look dramatic instead of very sore. Even though my vest caught the bullets, the damn things pack a punch. Not to mention the hits I took when all of them were against me. I’m going to have bruises all over tomorrow. At least the blood splatter looks badass. 

Barbie, across from me, takes a punch to the head. Her neck twists around a hundred and eighty degrees, as it can do when she’s plastic, and the guy is so shocked he looks like he might pass out. He stares, mouth agape, as Barbie reaches up and puts her head back on straight, then punches him in the nose. Much trial and error has determined for all of us that a good punch to the nose will knock out most unpowered people, unless they’re especially dedicated. 

Barbie cracks her neck, almost relishing the stares from Ivory and Pursuit. Her impassive doll face combined with the neck trick has, apparently, freaked them right out. 

Ferra steps over a body, her head held high, and lets out a blast of power. It’s performative at this point, sending guns and knives skittering over the pavement. But it’s scary. 

The Artist drops her last two with a blast of pepper spray and then two punishing hits to the head with her bat. The bat is just splatter-painted, but she used red and brown liberally to give the illusion of blood. She stands up straight, her chest heaving, and cocks one hip to lean against her bat. 

“Nicely done,” Artemis says. 

The wounded neo-Nazi sons of bitches have formed a loose, bloody ring around us and their leader capes. We’ve gotten past their human shield. Vice doesn’t look scared, judging from his body language, but he doesn’t look too happy, either. 

“Now we fight for real,” Ferra says, and then it really kicks off.


	9. Cape Fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The regular people defeated, Midnight moves on to the capes.

“What is wrong with you?” Ferra screams, furious. “Using these people as human shields? They don’t have powers!” 

“You fought them, didn’t you?” Vice asks. 

“Only because we had to,” Ferra says. “Only because you make this necessary. If you stop now, we’ll go home. We’ll all go our separate ways and if you never do this again, we will never see you again.” 

“Ha!” Pursuit shouts. How can one person be so annoying? She cannot be older than eighteen. I almost feel sorry for her. Someone got in her head young. 

I don’t feel sorry for her, though. Not really. Not as long as she hates everyone I care about. Not as long as she does shit like this. 

“I didn’t even do anything,” Virtue complains. I blink. I guess that’s fair. She didn’t, really. She didn’t do anything. 

“We wouldn’t chase you,” Ferra says. “Leave in peace and we will let you go. This is your last chance.” 

Virtue turns tail and runs. Vice, however, reaches out his right hand, fingers out, and slowly makes a fist as if crushing a piece of paper into a ball in his hand. Behind Ferra, a motorcycle turns into a pile of twisted metal. She doesn’t flinch. 

“So be it,” she says ominously. I would not like to be on the receiving end of that tone. She nods at each of us, then says, “We won’t throw the first punch.” 

“Fine,” Vice says. “Then we will.” He steps forwards, away from Ivory, and Pursuit pushes off. She launches herself at me, the sonic boom behind her almost knocking the Artist off her feet. I throw up my arms, but before I can react she’s behind me, kicking me in the back and knocking me forwards. I gasp and throw out my forearms before my face can hit the ground. My elbows sting from the little bits of gravel on the asphalt. 

I hear someone grunt. When I look up, Ivory’s forcefield is surrounding him and, presumably, Barbie. Vice is hand-to-hand with Ferra and Pursuit is going after the Artist. I don’t see Virtue. I guess she didn’t want to fight us. Thank goodness. One less person to deal with. 

“Artist!” I shout. 

She turns and sees Pursuit running at her. I see the Artist whip out her baseball bat to whack her. Pursuit doesn’t dodge, but the pressure wave from her stopping knocks me back to the ground. 

I force myself to stand up with my wrecked elbows and run at Pursuit. Ferra can hold her own, and I can’t do anything for Barbie. I’ll help the Artist first. 

Pursuit has her back turned to me, so I take the chance to swing my pipe. She sees me at the last minute and dives to the side, only barely avoiding a hit. Speedsters are the worst. 

“Here to help,” I say. 

The Artist nods and pulls her bat from the canvas on her right hip. She brandishes it as if she were going to hit a home run and says, calmly, “Duck.” 

I do, and she swings down sharply, catching Pursuit oddly in the elbow. Her sudden stop causes another rush of air pressure, and I only just brace myself against the pavement. My right knee pops painfully and I wince. It’s a damn good thing I wear a mask. 

I catch my breath, feeling every bruise from the earlier bullet strikes. Pursuit looks way too smug. I see that she’s about to go to my right, to hit the Artist. I stick my pipe out to stop her and she gasps aloud. 

“Those are my boobs, you bitch!” she shouts. 

“Yeah, yeah,” I breathe. I’m still barely keeping my balance from her shockwaves. If she’s not wearing any body armor that’s her own fault. It’s the only way I’ve been fighting so long. Actually, I’m pretty sure she’s not even wearing a sports bra. This is only the second time we’ve fought her. I can only conclude that she doesn’t fight enough to know how to dress for one. 

Moron. 

She ducks away and runs a circle around the Artist, then another, and another, generating a cyclone of her shockwaves and thoroughly throwing her off balance and knocking her to the ground. The Artist grunts. 

“One down,” I say into my earpiece, trying to shoot the Artist a look. “Plan sigma.” 

I try to predict Pursuit’s next step. Now that she thinks she’s got one of us, she’ll come after me, probably with the same move. My best bet is to get out of her weird shockwave-tornado before she can get going. In this, I have the advantage. 

She dives at me, going for the circle. I trace her path and jump out of it just as she makes one full lap, stumbling but not falling. I brace back against the pavement and scoop a rock off the pavement. It’s smooth and round, perfect for throwing. It’s not practical to carry rocks in my scarves, but the Artist doesn’t feel the weight in her canvases. 

Taking careful aim at where Pursuit will end up, I launch the stone and hit her square in the jaw. I think I hear a crack. 

“Ow!” Pursuit yells. “What the fuck?” 

The Artist gets to her feet while Pursuit is distracted and dives at her, rope already out of her painting. I see the fall and make a move to catch the two of them, just barely grabbing Pursuit before her head slams into the pavement. 

“Let go of me!” she yells. 

“Not a chance,” I breathe. I pin her arms with a bear hug while the Artist ties up her feet, then her hands. 

“Now stay there,” the Artist says condescendingly. 

She opens her mouth and starts screaming various obscenities, some of them relevant and some not. 

“Let her scream herself out,” I say to the Artist. “Let’s move on.” 

The Artist nods her agreement, her colorful mask a picture of impartiality. Our masks all have visible faces for the express purpose of putting a blank, uncaring look on them. Even Barbie’s smile is as plastic as the doll. Someone like Pursuit, who relies on pissing her enemies off, can’t get any purchase with a face like that. 

Ferra’s still battling Vice, neither of them having gained any ground. As we approach, she waves us away. 

“Barbie needs you guys more,” she says into her earpiece. “Get in there.” 

I glance at the impassible white bubble and then back at Ferra, who rolls her eyes. 

“Everything can be broken,” she says. 

I turn to the Artist, who shrugs. “Let’s go for it,” she says, pulling her bat out of the canvas at her right hip. Together, we walk to the white wall and then, making what would be eye contact except for the masks and my veils, bring our weapons down on the bubble with all the force we can muster. 

It wavers. 

“Shit,” I say under my breath. Not as impenetrable as we thought. Maybe it’s an issue of focus? Or the field itself is vulnerable after being constructed? 

“Focus, Medium,” the Artist says. “On three. One, two, three!” 

Another strike makes the field blink away for a moment. Barbie’s bleeding. My heart jumps. I’m not clear on the limits of Ivory’s power, so I don’t know if he can hit with a force field, but I do know he’s a big guy with a lot of muscle. Barbie’s strong, and she can fight, but we’ve been fighting for a while and she must be tired. 

The field goes back up. 

“On three,” I say. 

This time I manage to shove myself through before Ivory puts the field back up. The Artist hits again and Ivory winces. It’s hurting him. 

“Keep going, Artist,” I say into my earpiece. In the meantime, I run to help Barbie. Ivory’s about to go for his head but as he does, I strike out at his arm, hitting his elbow downwards so the hit doesn’t land. 

Barbie nods at me. It’s progress from her glares when we all first worked together. It’s a wonder we pulled off our first job at all. 

“Douchebag,” she says aloud, going to drive her fist into Ivory’s gut. He pops a forcefield up in the way just in time, but that drops the big one and the Artist charges in, bat ready to strike. 

Unfortunately Ivory can still set up forcefields and the hit doesn’t land. I go for a punch and nearly shatter my hand on the impenetrable white wall. 

“Fuck you,” I mutter. 

“Bitch,” he responds. 

With the three of us, we should beat him handily, but we’ve been fighting too long. My ribs ache from the gunshots, and I can feel the blood seeping through my leggings at the knees. We need to end this. 

“Ferra,” I say. “We need the big guns.” 

I barely hear an affirmative noise. The Artist tries to get Ivory with a hit to the back of the neck, but he puts up a field around his whole body and the bat only manages to shake the field, not the person inside. I can see he’s about to strike back at Barbie’s head, so I put myself in the way and take the blow to my chest, where the armor is. 

“Medium,” Barbie says. “Are you dumb?” 

“No concussions,” I say. An old motto, older even than “before midnight”.

“Artemis?” Ferra breathes. 

“Here.” 

“I need you to take out Vice.” 

“On it. Oh--Oh shit.” 

“Artemis? What is it?” Ferra asks. 

“Fuck me,” Artemis curses, and then her earpiece cuts out. 

“Artemis!” I shout. 

“What did you do to her?” Ferra screams, launching herself at Vice. She goes for a punch but he dodges easily because she’s furious. She lashes out again, and nothing. 

“Ferra,” I say. “Ferra, listen to me.” I dodge Ivory and say, “Ferra, she’ll be okay. We need to focus.” I swing my pipe and just barely miss Ivory’s head. 

“How could you?” Ferra screams. 

“Ferra!” Etta shouts. 

“Ferra, please,” I say. 

I hear a punch land, and then Ferra says, “I--Yes. I’m focused. Thanks.” A burst of static, a sigh. “Barbie, go to Artemis. You know where she is.” 

“I do.” 

“Artist, Medium, keep doing what you’re doing. We’re not done yet. Not by a long shot.” 

“Got it,” the Artist says as Barbie takes off to help Artemis. She can really sprint when she wants to. Once upon a time she would’ve stayed and the Artist or I would’ve had to go for Artemis. Once upon a time, though, none of us would’ve had each other’s help. Goodness knows the Dentist would never have sent one of us to help another. 

Fucking neo-Nazi bastards. Ivory’s surrounded himself with that white forcefield and I have to wonder if he was like this before he got his powers. I’d hazard a guess that he’s in his mid-twenties, a bit younger than me, so he could easily have triggered recently or years ago. It’s just too thematic, the white forcefields. 

The Artist cuts me a look. It’s her usual look for when I get lost thinking about what’s really going on underneath the surface of the cape world. Time for that later. 

I watch Ivory’s field carefully for when he’ll drop it and I can get a hit in. He’ll have to drop it to land on a hit on one of us, so all I need to do is wait. I can see his field change because it’s part of him, which is interesting but also something I’ll have to wait to contemplate. 

“Artist,” I say. “On three.” 

She nods, and counts. I see the field blink, Ivory inside, and barely land a blow to his shoulder. The Artist doesn’t dodge his fist to her stomach. 

“Fuck,” she says eloquently. 

“Status?”

“Seven out of ten,” she admits, which realistically places her closer to a five. We need to wrap this up, and quick. 

“Rope,” I say. The Artist pulls out the tough rope we use to bind people and glances over for the next step. If Ferra’s the leader, I guess that makes me second-in-command. Even if it’s only because I can see the future. 

“When it next goes down, we’re going to get it wrapped around him. He can’t move things with the forcefields.” He doesn’t punch with them. “Then we can tie him up.” 

“Got it,” the Artist says, nodding. 

This’ll only work if we’ve tired him out, which I think we have, based on his heavy breathing. I can only hope Barbie and Artemis have tied up Virtue. I don’t think she’s known for her hand-to-hand combat, but then, neither is Artemis. 

“Three, two, one…go!” I shout, and the Artist and I, rope stretched between us, run parallel on either side of Ivory and then cross behind him. 

With him firmly in place, we wrap again, and then once more, and then I say, “Artist, take down the field. I’ll go for the head.” I use my wooden staff because it’s less fatal and I’m a bit closer to Ferra now, and I wait for the Artist’s bat to hit the field. 

The moment it’s down, I bring the staff crashing down on his skull. I hear him whimper. The Artist brings the field down again and I go across, hitting his left ear and snapping his head to the side. 

“Let’s tie him up,” I say. “What an asshole.” 

The Artist nods her agreement. She binds him up expertly, as we have many times before, and we go over to Ferra. Her helmet is hiding most of her face but I can see from her motions that she’s tired. I can only imagine. 

She nods to us as we approach Vice from behind. We need this to be done. 

I see Vice’s shoulder raise as he prepares to punch Ferra. Before he can I slam my pipe into the side of his head, knocking him off balance. 

“Ow, fuck!” he says.  

“It’s over,” I say. He’s focusing on me now, so the Artist swings her bat and hits him in the gut. He double over and Ferra snaps her elbow down onto his back, knocking him to the ground. 

“You’re done,” she says, and she spits on him. “Tie him up, Artist, Medium. Barbie, Artemis?” 

“All done up here,” Barbie says, a note of pride in her voice. 

“Alright. I’ll notify the authorities and let’s head home. Medium?” 

I hand her a burner cell from my scarves and she dials a number I don’t know. “Hi. This is Ferra. We’ve got four E88 capes tied up and ready for you to pick up. Bloomington and east twenty-sixth. We’ll be gone before you get here. No dead.” 

“Alright,” Ferra says, letting the phone drop. “Get Virtue down here, and then we’re out.” 

Artemis wasn’t that high this time, so Virtue’s struggling form is lying on the pavement with the rest of her shitty gang before anyone else shows up. 

“We’re going home,” Ferra says. “Come on, everyone. It’s been a long night.”


	10. Ice Bath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mission successful, Midnight returns home to heal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for talk of sexual assault in this chapter. 
> 
> Maybe I'll update regularly this summer! Unlikely, but there's a first time for everything, including me keeping any sort of update schedule. As always, I live for kudos and comments, and I appreciate the feedback immensely. 
> 
> This chapter brought to you by Fall Out Boy's Growing Up, because, frankly, Glenview never meant a thing to me, either.

Florence opens the back door once the babysitter is gone and we all stumble in. Elliot’s awake. 

“Hey, baby,” I say. 

“Hi!” he says, perky but exhausted. 

“How was the night?” Artemis asks, ruffling his hair. 

“Good.” 

“It’s late,” the Artist says, tweaking his ear like she does. 

“Bedtime,” Barbie insists. 

“Fine,” he says, annoyed. “But I’m not going to sleep!”

“Alright, baby,” Florence says indulgently. She leads him to his room and the rest of us troop upstairs to the (soundproof, lockable) prep room. 

I ache down to my bones. My scarves come off to reveal scrapes and cuts and smaller bruises on my arms. My saree and leggings are hiding bleeding patches on my knees and shins. My body armor has been covering dozens of bigger, deeper bruises. I leave my undershirt and underwear on. I don’t want to know what my abdomen looks like. 

Florence joins us and strips down to her underclothes, revealing dozens more injuries. 

Catherine is busy trying to wrestle Em back into a chair. 

“Sit still, you stubborn jerk. You’re going to get infection if you don’t let someone clean you up.” 

“I’m fine, jeez,” Em says. 

“No you are not,” Florence says. “Catherine, you too.” 

“I’m fine,” Catherine says. “You four sit down. No one leaves this room without disinfectant and bandages and lots of ice.” 

“Let me help you,” Florence says, a tiny note of tenderness in her voice. 

“After I fix you all up,” Catherine insists. 

She starts with Em. Catherine’s the only one who doesn’t do so much hand-to-hand, so I know it makes sense for her to fix us up, but she’s young. She’s only twenty. She talks about never going to college but she wouldn’t have graduated by now if she hadn’t left home. It’s odd that she usually fixes us up. 

At least she starts with Em. The discomfort radiating off Em is palpable when anyone touches her. Catherine works quickly and efficiently, and then Em says a quick goodnight and heads downstairs to her room. Em doesn’t like being patched up, but I suppose she agrees that not getting an infection from the gravel ground into her wounds (not to mention visible amounts of grime) is worth a few moments of touch. She could always wear long sleeves and pants, but in the same way Catherine won’t quit her job at the restaurant Em won’t change her costume. 

I try to go last, but Florence ends up last as always. She is the leader, and the oldest. She takes care of us. She bandages Catherine’s wounds. 

When Catherine’s done, and the painkillers have started to set in, Etta looks at me with tired eyes and tilts her head in the direction of our rooms. 

“Goodnight, all,” Florence says. “We did good tonight. Don’t forget that.” 

“Goodnight,” I say. Etta nods. Her throat tends to get sore after fights. 

Catherine finishes undoing her hair and says, “Goodnight, guys. Sleep well.” 

We nod and I follow Etta to her room. Catherine’s lights are off, and I’d bet money she’s already asleep. 

I sit next to Etta on her unmade bed. She sleeps in a nest, her blankets all bunched up and pillows scattered across. 

“Are you okay?” she asks. 

I shrug. 

“We beat them,” she reminds me. 

“I know,” I say. “I know.” 

Silence. 

“They’ll be back,” I say. “They always are. They were going to kill me, Etta. They would have. Another girl in my place who didn’t trigger would have died alone and in pain.” 

“I know,” she says. 

“They are ruining everything,” I say, and I know it sounds hysterical. “For all of us. For Elliot.” 

“I know,” she says. “That’s why we do what we do.” She looks at me like she can see I’m million miles away. Or, more specifically, a thousand miles, to where I grew up and where I walked home rather than letting Jassi drive me. 

“Hey, Anjila?” she asks. “Where are you?” 

“Minneapolis,” I tell her. “Right on the edge, near St. Paul.” 

“Are you?” she asks with a raised eyebrow. I’ve never managed to raise just one eyebrow. 

“And where are you?” I ask in return. 

“I’m here,” Etta says. “At home.” 

I nod, and try to calm down. It’s hard to pin down exactly what it is in me that’s not calm. It’s just a prickling feeling all over, just under my skin, like I need to go. I need to go. I need to check the windows and doors, and make sure my family is safe. I need to get up right now and get dressed again and prowl the neighborhood, keep watch outside the house--

“Sit down,” Etta says. “You’re not going anywhere. Have you seen yourself?” 

I glance back down at my body. The bruises look awful. I chance a look at my abdomen, rolling up my undershirt, and wince in spite of myself. Two huge, purple bruises are merging into one, like food coloring in water. It looks terrible. 

“Fuck,” I say. 

“Hey, Anjila,” Etta says. “We did good work. They’re going to go to jail. It’ll be a while until they try something like this again.” 

“They better go to jail.” 

“I’m pretty sure they will,” Etta says. “Even if they don’t, they’ll know what we can do to them. They never try twice so close together. They know us better than that.” She sounds very self-assured for someone who is also covered in bruises and scrapes. 

“Yeah,” I agree. I don’t really feel it, but it might be the cortisol still flooding my veins. “Fuck, I have work tomorrow.” 

“Call in sick.” 

“Maybe,” I say. Catherine can switch shifts with relative ease; Etta and Em and Florence set their own schedules. I’m the only one beholden to corporate America. “It might look suspicious.” 

“Doubtful,” Etta says. “Who’d ever connect pencil-skirt-wearing, scathing-email-writing, perpetually-punctual Anjila Hayer with the Medium?” 

“Don’t you worry about someone connecting Etta Thompson with the Artist?” 

Etta shakes her head. “Etta doesn’t do much. The Artist does. I don’t know anyone juggles three identities. Two is enough for me.” 

I nod my agreement. How two of my friends have three separate identities (for which Etta maintains papers) is a mystery to me. At least two of Catherine’s are regular people. 

“Etta,” I say, as a thought I’ve long had but never spoken springs up again. “Can I ask you something about your painting?” 

She flops back on her bed and stretches. “Sure.” 

“Your paintings with power in them. Why are they only empty rooms?” 

“That’s most useful,” she says stiffly. 

“But you could put your power in any painting. Right?” 

“Yeah.” 

“I mean, when did you last put power into anything but an empty room?” 

“Never have,” she says with forced casualness. “Not since I got my powers.” 

I think about the paintings Etta makes. By all rights, she’s a brilliant artist. She paints lots of things, cityscapes largely, as well as portraits, and she tends towards the symbolic and abstract. Her style tends to be more modern than postmodern, but the postmodern reveals itself in surreal elements of the cities and faces. 

But there are a lot of empty rooms. 

“It was in your studio, wasn’t it?” I ask, suddenly sure. 

“What was?” 

“Your trigger event.” 

“Oh. Um. Yeah.” She sighs. “Yeah. Five years ago. You know, I had a big show the next day.” She makes a face. “He completely ruined it.” 

“He?” I prod gently. She knows she can tell me to fuck off if she wants to. 

“Emmett,” she says simply. “We were dating.” She makes a face. “Men.” 

I nod my agreement. 

“I don’t even know why I went out with him. He wasn’t even that cute. He liked my art, though. He said it was great when he came to my studio.” She sighs, shakes her head. “Should’ve known better. I never should’ve let anyone into my studio, much less him. I should’ve known.”

“Hey, now. That’s not true,” I say. I have strong suspicions about what happened, and am exponentially more worried than I was a moment ago. “You couldn’t have known.” 

“I guess.” 

“Want to talk about it?” I try. 

Etta sighs, still flopped onto her pile of blankets. 

“I don’t know. I guess…I invited him to my studio, cuz that was when it was all one thing, you know? Like, it was a studio apartment with just the one room and it was also where I did all my work. It always smelled like paint. Didn’t even have a real bed--just this weird mattress on the floor.” She laughs at her younger self the same way I do now. “And he--after he--” She stops, like there’s something in her throat. “You know. He asked if he could stay the night.” She laughs, short and mirthless, and says, “I wish I was kidding. He had no idea what he’d done. I had to tell him I had to be awake at six to get him to leave.” 

“Asshole.” 

She shrugs. “It’s great, being an art student. You can chuck a bunch of stuff in the incinerator and nobody asks too many questions.” She stares purposefully at the ceiling, not at me. “I said it was art.” 

“Was it?” 

“No. Just…garbage disposal.” 

I don’t have a response to that. 

“I don’t know. I could’ve been a good artist--a pro, I mean. That show, it went really well, for a junior in college. The gallery called me back and everything.” She laughs bitterly. “Someone paid me a lot of money for that painting of an empty room.” 

I look at her questioningly, and she answers, “First painting I ever gave power to. Mostly on accident, really, but I painted my studio how it looked when I first moved in--before it was my studio. Accidentally dropped a paintbrush inside. I sold it with the brush inside.” A pause. “I haven’t sold one with power since. I mean, they’re useful. No reason to.” 

Em doesn’t like to be touched, Catherine won’t quit her job, and Etta paints empty rooms and fills them with power. I suppose we all have our own ways to try to tolerate the unbearable weight on our shoulders. 

Etta shakes her head, shaking away the memories, I suppose. “Hey, Anjila?” 

“Yeah?” 

“Thanks.” 

“For?” I ask, a bit confused. 

“You’re a good friend. When I joined the Professionals, when we left them…you’re a good friend.” 

“You are too,” I say genuinely. “Even when I’m being dumb.” 

“What, like how you check all the windows and doors?” 

I jump, surprised she knows. 

“Anjila. I love you to death. You’re not that subtle. It’s okay. I’d be scared, too. I mean, out of nowhere, like that?” She shivers a bit. “It’s horrible.” 

“Yeah.” She knows my story. She knows about walking alone, just as night fell, the quiet car behind me, the hand on my wrist, the arm around my waist. She knows about sitting in the back, bound and gagged, kicking myself for being so stupid. I should’ve known. I should’ve seen it coming. I shouldn’t have let it happen. She knows about the crowbar, and the 9-1-1 call, and she knows that I wasn’t a cape for years and years for no reason I can explain except that, for years and years, I couldn’t turn off the future-sight. Even now that I can, I don’t. 

“Round and round we go,” I say. 

“Hm?” 

“We’re just going around in circles,” I say. “We pull a job, we get some money or turn over some real criminals, we rest, we start again. Round and round we go.” 

“Yeah. But, like, sort of a spiral, you know?” 

“Yeah,” I agree. I can’t say why, exactly, I agree, but she’s right. 

After a moment, I realize I’m so tired I can hardly think. 

“I need an ice bath,” I say. “And then twelve hours of sleep.” 

“Calling in sick, then?” Etta asks, teasing. 

“Yeah,” I concede. “Definitely.” 

And I do. I cough it up on the phone, trying to sound blighted, but once I’ve hung up I just groan. I ache down to my bones. I check under my shirt again, this time looking at my whole torso, and see how purple and swollen I am. There are indents from where my sports bra was. I’m going back to sleep. 

When I wake up again, I draw another icy bath and plop in. “Ugh,” I say aloud. I have too many bruises to ice individually. I can’t even read right now. I’m too exhausted. 

Someone knocks on my door. “Anjila?” 

“Yeah, Florence?” 

“Are you alright?” 

“I’m soaking in ice.” 

Florence nods knowingly. I can’t see her, but I think this is a safe assumption. “Well, I’ve made lunch. Feel free to join us downstairs.” 

Lunch already. I guess I slept quite a while. I drag myself out of the ice bath, feeling a lot less achy and a lot more numb, and put on some clothes. Sweatpants and a T-shirt. I could care less if it looks like I just woke up. I’m tired and I have every right to be. 

“Morning,” Etta says when I get downstairs. 

“Morning,” I say, pulling out my chair. “How is everyone?” 

Em makes an exaggerated wince at me. “If hurt any more I’d be dead.” 

“Same,” I say, groaning again as I sit down. “Ow.” 

Florene sets down a massive bowl of fried rice and my mouth waters. “Eat up, guys.” 

“Hey, Florence?” Etta says through a mouthful of rice. 

“Yeah?” 

“I love you.” 

Florence laughs. “Love you too, Etta. Chew with your mouth closed.” 

Etta rolls her eyes but swallows before saying, “What do people say to movie night this Saturday?” 

“Sounds great,” Catherine says. 

I nod, because I’m eating. 

“Em, are you freelancing that night?” Florence asks. 

“I had an offer, but it’s not that great,” she says. “I don’t think I’ll take them up on it.” This is Em’s blasé way of saying that she’d love to be at the movie night with us. “Long as we get popcorn.” 

“Of course,” Catherine says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. It is, really. Three years of movie nights and we’ve always had popcorn. “I’ll make sure there is no Kate at work that weekend.” 

“You need a better fake name,” Em says, again. “Kate is literally a nickname for Catherine.  You’re gonna get found out.” 

“There are enough Kates and Catherines that no one will notice,” Catherine says. 

“I don’t get why you need two regular-people identities,” Etta says. I guess today is rehashing-old-arguments day. “One is plenty enough for me.” 

“I ran away,” Catherine says. “I don’t want someone finding me and trying to bring me back.” She rolls her eyes like this is obvious. 

“They couldn’t force you,” Etta points out. “You’re an adult.” 

“I know. Still don’t want anyone finding me. I talk to exactly one person from my old life, and she doesn’t even know my real identity’s middle name.” 

“You make it sound like you’re on the run from the police.” 

“If I was on the run from the police, I would not stay in the same city I grew up in.” 

“Point,” I say. “I mean, how many of us have run away? All of us? And as far as I know, Only you,” I nod to Catherine, “And you,” Etta, this time, “Are from here.” 

“If Em from further away, or Anjila?” Etta asks. 

“Me,” Em says. “Pretty sure San Fran is further than Philadelphia.”  

“It is,” Catherine confirms, checking her phone. “Five hundred miles further.”

“Why the hell’d you pick Minneapolis?” Etta asks. 

“Seemed nice,” Em says. “Change of pace. Also, the bus took me far away without having to make any transfers in places like Tomah, Wisconsin.” 

“Tomah is not that bad,” Florence says, predictably. “It was a nice place to grow up.” 

“And you came to the Cities as soon as they let you go, didn’t you?” I point out. 

“The hooking is better in a city than a small town in the middle of nowhere,” Florence says matter-of-factly. “Also, there was much less chance running into someone I already knew--like any of my eight uncles.” 

“Fair enough,” I concede. 

“I’m still glad I grew up in a real city, not some weird town in rural nowhere,” Em says. 

“Same, honestly,” I say. 

Florence throws up her hands. “Just my luck, throwing my lot in with a bunch of city kids.” 

“Our kid’s a city kid,” I say, for the express purpose of being contrary. 

“I didn’t exactly plan him,” Florence says, jokingly exasperated. “And the schools back in Tomah weren’t very good. There’s better schools here.” 

“You like the city better than the country,” Etta teases. 

“Cuz it’s better,” Catherine says. “There’s stuff to do, for one thing. And other people. And no gross animals smells. And there’s other capes.” 

“I’m not sure that having other capes around is always a good thing,” I say. “You guys remember Recall?”

“What a pain in the ass,” Florence says, shaking her head. “‘Come to the side of good and you can be granted amnesty’ and all that. Jeez.”

“At least Veracity isn’t a massive ass about it,” Etta agrees. “Oh, guys--I was trawling the forums, and have you heard some of the new cape names?” 

“No,” I say, excited. 

“In the Wards, there’s a kid called Neato.” 

“Neato?” Catherine asks, choking on her water. “That’s worse than Kickflip! Fucking--Neato?” 

“Language,” Florence says mildly, without any bite. 

“I know,” Etta agrees. “Anyone wanna guess his powers?”

“Sounding like a douchebag at all times?” Em guesses. “Or--no. He’s a kid. Permanently acting like a thirteen-year-old.” 

“No and no. A Tinker who makes communications devices.” 

I can’t help but laugh. “Anyone else of note?” 

“Oh, this one’s even better. A rogue, a pro wrestler. His name is Strength of Steel.” 

The whole table roars with laughter. It takes a few minutes for Florence to catch her breath. 

“Holy shit,” she says. “Holy--wow. I can’t believe it. Jeez.” 

“That’s the worst thing I’ve ever heard,” Em says, trying to breathe evenly. “I mean, jeez, Kickflip is dumb, but…wow.” 

Etta shakes her head. “I’m really glad none of us got stuck with really stupid names. I mean, the Artist has kind of a nice ring to it, I think.” 

“I do too,” I agree. 

“People don’t usually get Ferra,” Florence muses. “Sounds good, though.” 

“I don’t get Ferra,” Em says. 

“It’s got to do with magnets,” Florence begins. “There’s three kinds of magnetism: diamagnetism, paramagnetism, and ferromagnetism. The first two are metals in other magnetic fields--” 

“Okay, let me remind you I left high school when I was sixteen,” Em says. “I never finished chemistry, much less physics, or whatever the hell this is.” 

“Alright, alright,” Florence says. “Permanent magnets are always to do with iron. And anything with iron in it is ferrous. So, Ferra. F-E-R-R-A.” 

“Hm,” Em contemplates this. “I still like mine better.” 

“You would,” Catherine points out. “It’s your name. I like Artemis. And Kate.” 

“Where’d you even get Southerland?” Em asks Catherine. 

“Honestly? I did a search for last names and picked something that sounded good with Kate.” 

“And how’d you pick Kate?”

“My parents called me that when I was younger and I hated it so much I told them never to do it again. Seemed like a good pick.” 

“Fair enough,” Em says. 

“I can’t believe your parents just named you Em,” Etta says. “Just--Em.”

Em rolls her eyes. “Well, it’s one easy syllable. And they wanted me to fit in with the other kids. Aunt Lu and Uncle Wei were pushing for Hualan. Yours went with four!”

“There is a reason I don’t go by Henrietta,” Etta says. “Only my parents ever called me that. And Anjila when she feels like getting on my nerves.” 

“I don’t really,” I protest. “It’s only because you called me Ann that one time. Not even the right kind of ‘a’ sound.” 

“Ann? Really?” Catherine asks Etta. 

Etta sighs, rolls her eyes. “I was trying to be funny.” 

“And you were,” Florence says. “I mean, we’re all laughing here.” 

“If any of you call me that--” I start, leaving the threat unfinished. 

Em rolls her eyes and stands up to get a beer, tucked away in a minifridge Elliot doesn’t know about. As she cracks it open, I make a face. 

“What?” 

“Beer is gross.” 

“No it’s not.” 

“It is!” I say. 

“Can I have one?” Catherine asks. 

“No,” Florence says with practiced patience. “You’re only twenty. It’s illegal.” 

We all stare at her. 

“We also don’t do that much tax evasion,” Florence points out. “Also, yeah, beer is not great.” 

“Whatever,” Catherine says, rolling her eyes. “I turn twenty-one in just a few months, anyways. Hey, are we prepared for Elliot’s birthday?” 

“He hasn’t told me what he wants yet,” Florence says. “We can have a party for him in the backyard, and a cake on the day.” 

“Can’t believe the school year’s almost over,” I muse. “He’s starting middle school next year.” 

“Wow,” Etta says. 

Florence takes a big gulp of water and promptly chokes on it. “Jeez. Let’s not talk about that.” 

I nod my agreement. He may have been Florence’s kid first, but he’s all of ours now. And he’s going to start middle school next year. It’s a lot. 

“Why’d you name him Elliot?” Em asks. “Kind of out of nowhere, it seems.” 

“I thought it sounded nice,” Florence says. “Not too common, and…I don’t know, a little softer than Chad or something. And I didn’t know anyone named Elliot.” Another sip of water. “I didn’t pick it to have, like, a deep meaning or something.” She shrugs. “I mean, it works. And then he’s got my last name. I don’t actually know who his father is, so it wasn’t like I could give him any other.” 

“It’s a good name,” I say, because she needs to hear it. Florence’s self-consciousness is entirely focused on being a good parent to Elliot. None is devoted to her time as a prostitute. I wish I had that kind of self-confidence. 

“I like it,” Catherine says. 

“You came up with Ice Ice Baby,” Florence says. “I like that.” 

“Me too,” Em says. “It’s a good one.” 

“It was the spur of the moment,” Catherine says with a wave of her hand. “I’m kind of surprised it stuck.” 

“Well, we needed something to call him,” Etta points out. “And it was kind of funny and kind of sweet. So, Ice Ice Baby.” 

Catherine is faintly pink. She looks sunburned. “Thanks.” 

“No problem,” Etta says casually. “You know, my parents still call me Hen sometimes, when I call them.” 

“Hen,” Florence says. “That’s--wow.” 

“What about you, Florence? Did you ever get ‘Flo’ or something?” Em asks. 

“My dad called me Flo sometimes,” Florence says. “My mom picked out Florence, and she always called me that. Sometimes even Florence Luciana. Luciana from my relatives, sometimes.” She laughs into her food. “My friends in school called me Ren.” 

“Oh?” I ask.

“I had a phase,” she says. “I thought Florence was too girly. We’ve all had nicknames.” 

“I’ve always gone by Catherine,” Catherine says. “I mean, except when I’m Kate, but that’s a whole ‘nother identity. My mom tried to call me Cathy when I was little, like Kate, but I didn’t go for it at all.” 

“My mom just called me sweetu,” I say. “Or babu.” 

“That’s cute,” Etta says. 

“My friends in college called me Jam,” I say. 

“Jam?” Etta asks. 

“Jam,” I confirm. “Um, well…it’s a whole thing. My friend Olive thought I my name was Amjila at first, not Anjila, and Amj to Jam, and then that was my nickname in college.” 

Catherine and Em laugh, and Florence smiles. 

“Can’t really shorten Em,” Em says. “I never had a nickname.” 

“We could give you one,” Catherine says, a hint of mischief in her voice. 

“No, no,” Em says. “I did not sign up for this when I joined up.” 

“I mean, you did a little,” Catherine says. “You knew I was on the team.” 

“Yeah, well,” Em says. “Just a little. Not a whole new nickname.” 

Florence laughs. “I didn’t quite anticipate this when I suggested the house.” 

“You remember the real estate agent?” Em asks. 

“The look on her face!” Etta adds. “Oh, she absolutely thought--thought--”

“Thought we were the world’s weirdest lesbians,” I finish, laughing as well. “Oh man, I remember that. She asked which of us were a couple, and you said--” 

“‘None of us are’,” Florence finishes for me. “You should’ve seen her eyes--size of dinner plates.” 

“I mean, we are mostly gay, right?” I ask. “Just not with each other.”

“I love you guys to death, but not like that,” Catherine says. 

We nod our agreement. 

“It’s a bit of a tricky thing, to date when you’re a cape,” Etta says. 

“Mm-hmm,” I agree. “I’m just glad to be here, with you guys.” 

“Me too,” Etta agrees. “Except when it’s my week to take out the trash.” 

“Speaking of, I’ll clean up,” I say, noticing the dearth of food left on the table. “Anyone up for some TV? I think Doctor Pol is on Nat Geo.” 

“Oh, hell yes,” Etta says. 

Catherine makes a face. “No HGTV?” 

“Come on, Catherine,” Em says. “There’s kittens.” 

“Oh, fine,” she allows. “Nobody take my spot on the couch.” 

Considering we each have our own well-established spots on the couch or other chairs, there’s no real risk. Still, I say, “Don’t worry. We won’t.”


	11. Romantic Paintings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anjila goes to work, teaches Elliot to fight, and cultivates her love of art.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This week's chapter brought to you by M31, the Andromeda Galaxy, whose hydrogen emission regions I have been cataloguing and for which I have developed a deep love.

“Are you feeling better?” Susan asks at work on Friday. 

“Oh, yeah,” I lie. “I had a migraine.” 

“I get migraines,” Jenny says understandingly. “They can really knock you out.” 

I nod my agreement. “One of my housemates was nice enough to bring me pain meds while I was busy being dead to the world in my room.” 

“How many housemates do you have?” Jenny teases. 

“Four,” I say, omitting Elliot as always. 

“Wait, really?” Jenny asks. Susan sips her diet Coke. 

“Yeah,” I say. 

“How does that even work?” 

I’m not sure what she means, so I just wrinkle my foreheard and try to look confused. 

“You’re almost thirty, right? Why do you need roommates?” 

“I mean, I do have my own room, and my own bathroom. They’re my friends. I don’t need to live with them. I just like to.” I take a brief moment to be surprised that I’m not lying. I’d rather live in that big house with my friends than alone. I take a bite of my lunch. “What about you? How’s James?” 

“Oh, he’s alright,” Jenny says. “The renovations are going well. And we’re planning to go to Pride this year. I’m looking forwards to it.” 

“I might go, too,” I say. 

“We’re still young enough to get really wasted.” 

Susan snorts into her drink. “I won’t be doing that at noon on a summer Saturday.” 

“I mean later,” Jenny clarifies. “Loring Park has some really great gay bars. James and I met at one.” 

“That’s sweet,” Susan says. “How did it happen?” 

“Oh, it was all across-a-crowded-room…” Jenny tells the cutest possible story for how she met her partner and I take a brief moment to wonder what she’s not telling us. There are dozens of little secrets I keep from Jenny and Susan, from my painting hobby to Elliot’s existence, and I can only imagine that they don’t tell me everything, either. I could be fighting Susan every night on the streets and never know it. 

“Ow,” Susan says suddenly, and I’m immediately on alert. 

“Are you okay?” I ask, trying not to sound too freaked out. Too many people I care about are hurt right now. 

“Fine,” Susan says. “I’ve--I have a stye. It itches really bad, but if I scratch it it hurts. It’s just really dumb.” 

Of all things. At least she’s alright. I don’t need anyone else to worry about right now. If Elliot caught a cold I’d probably drop dead. “Oh, that sucks,” I say. 

“Yeah,” she agrees. “That’s why I’m wearing glasses today.” She gestures at her face, and the thin silver frames resting on her nose. “I could get by without, but it’s harder to read, so why bother?” There’s a little secret--I never knew Susan wore contacts until she showed up today with glasses. 

“Have you ever thought about colored contacts?” Jenny asks. 

“I tried them when I was in college. I had red eyes for a bit,” Susan says, laughing and rolling her eyes at her younger self. “They were more expensive and sometimes screwed up my night vision, so I just do the clear ones now.” 

“Oh! Did you guys hear about what happened Wednesday?” Jenny asks.   
`  
“No, what?” Susan asks. 

“Huge cape fight downtown,” Jenny says. “It was this whole thing. The local Empire Eighty-Eight tried to do something, I don’t know what, but they were gathering and this really obscure group showed up and stopped them.” 

“Oh yeah, I heard about that,” I say. “Did you hear what happened?” 

“A little. I know that they got some footage, from people in the neighborhood.” 

“Oh?” I say. Fear makes my throat close up. Fuck me. 

“Yeah. I know you like cape news. I can send you the link to the story. It’s mostly on this really creepy girl with a mask like a Barbie doll. She turned her neck 180 degrees. It’s scary as hell.” 

I shiver. “Jeez, what the hell? That’s freaky.” 

“Kind of cool, though,” Jenny says. “A group coming out of nowhere to take down those jerks.” 

“Yeah,” I agree, somewhat self-consciously. 

“I don’t know about the whole vigilante-justice thing,” Susan says. 

I shrug. 

“Capes are weird, though,” Jenny points out. “I mean, who else was going to stop those people? The police?” 

“The PRT,” Susan points out. I repress another shiver. Even thinking about the PRT makes me very, very nervous. 

“I guess,” Jenny says. “I still think it’s kind of cool. The one with the leather armor looked pretty badass, too.” 

“I’ll watch the video and report back,” I joke. Ferra does look pretty cool. 

After lunch, at my desk, I pull up the news article Jenny sent me and click the video. It’s reasonably shaky, just a phone camera from someone in the neighborhood. It’s about three minutes long and covers the end of the fight with the unpowered people, Ferra and Vice’s argument, and then the beginnings of the real cape fight before someone off-camera says “Let’s go, dude!” Whoever filmed it was mostly focused on Barbie before Ivory’s bubble goes up, so they catch her trick with her neck and a few other creepy things she does--once her elbow goes backwards for a hit and one time she stretches her arm longer as she’s fighting. I asked her once; she absolutely does it on purpose to freak people out. 

It works. 

After she vanishes from sight, the filmer focusing on Ferra and Vice, who do look impressive, throwing around huge metal objects. Artemis is obviously out of sight, and the camera person spares only a brief glance towards the Artist and me. 

Overall, I think we’ll survive. But I’m not happy about it, and I doubt anyone else will be either. Etta probably already knows and is prowling the cape forums for anything that could disrupt us. Unlike most capes, we make a point to keep a low profile when possible. 

I shoot Etta a text. “Linking you an article. Someone got us on film.” 

A couple minutes later, when I’ve opened some emails and such, I get a response. “Yeah. Doing damage control now. Fml.” 

I smile and turn back to my work computer. My spreadsheets need work. 

After dinner, I ruffle Elliot’s hair and say, “Hey, baby. Wanna practice fighting?” 

He perks up. “Hand-to-hand?” he asks, eager. “Can I use the staff?” 

“Not today,” I say, laughing. “Come on. I’ll help you wrap your hands.” 

I wrap his hands, and mine, and we get to sparring on the mat in the basement. 

“This isn’t fair,” Elliot complains. 

“Why not?” I ask. 

“You can see what I’m gonna do!” 

“I can. But you can see what I’m going to do, too.” 

“No I can’t. I can turn into ice. I can’t see the future.” 

“Watch the core,” I say. “Even if I feint, I have to be ready to keep my balance when I go for the real hit.” I demonstrate. “You can see it. I know you can.” 

Elliot frowns, but says, “I guess.” 

“Watch carefully,” I say, and I demonstrate again. I don’t hit him. I can’t hit him. On some level I just can’t. So instead, I pull back right before I make contact. I’m good at not hitting him. It’s why I’m in charge of hand-to-hand, even though Em’s got more practice. Em teaches him disguise, instead, how to walk and talk like somebody you’re not. Catherine teaches him shooting; Etta teaches him hacking; Florence teaches him strategy. There’s a lot we need to teach him. 

“We’re going to try again,” I say. “Watch my core. Okay?” 

I go for the hit, no feint, and he blocks me. No feint. Block. Feint. No block. No feint. Block. Feint. Block. 

“Nicely done!” I say. “Good job, baby.” 

He fairly glows with pride. 

“Let’s call it for tonight,” I say. We’ve been at it for forty minutes, at least. “There’s ice cream in the fridge. We’ll scoop you some.” 

“Thanks Ma,” he says. He gives me a quick hug and then goes to unwrap his hands. It’s mostly for show, because he hardly ever makes contact, but it’s good for him to be in the habit.  “Am I doing good?” 

“You’re doing great, baby,” I say. 

Two scoops of mint chocolate chip ice cream later, it’s his bedtime. 

“Bedtime, Elliot,” I say. 

“But Ma--”

“But bedtime. Come on, I’ll walk you to your room.” 

I do, and once he’s in bed I’m free to sleep myself. I’m still tired from Wednesday, and I’m aching all over. 

I take a hot shower, have a quick cry, and go to bed. 

In the morning, I’m in the mood to paint. 

I pick a nice canvas, a good size, and some nice oil paints. I had a fondness for the Danish Golden Age and today I feel like painting a landscape like theirs, something expansive and beautiful with no people in sight. There’s going to be a nice stream in this one, and some big green trees. I set the canvas on one of my easels and plop down on my painting stool. 

“Hey, Anjila?” Etta asks from her stool.

“Yeah?” 

“Can I paint you?” 

“Sure,” I say. “Why? Don’t you normally work from stock photos?” 

“I had a thought. I’d like to paint people how they are when they’re doing what’s important to them--like, focused. You get a look when you’re painting.” 

“Huh,” I say. “I didn’t realize.”

“That’s the point,” Etta says. “I’d do Catherine at target practice, or chatting with customers. Florence on the phone or gardening. Em doing on her face or practicing forms. You making art or studying. And myself--I don’t know. Painting, I guess, or hacking.” 

“People doing what they love,” I say. “Yeah. It’s…it’s better than a stock photo.” 

“I’m trying to branch out,” Etta says. “I mean, the cityscapes are nice, but…I don’t know. I’m feeling portraits for a while.” 

“Hm,” I say. 

“What are you painting today?” 

“Landscape,” I say. “Romantic style, or Danish Golden Age. I really like the Danish Golden Age.” 

“I thought you specialized in Impressionists.” 

“Romantics and their like are my second biggest interest.” 

“See, I know I should’ve studied more art history in school, but it never seemed to come up.” 

“You’re an artist!” 

“I only finished out college after I triggered because I didn’t want to waste tuition. There was not a lot of effort going on.” 

“I’m sorry,” I say. 

“It’s alright,” she says. “I don’t know. It was a whole thing.” 

“Yeah,” I agree. 

“I don’t think I have any of my old paintings,” Etta says, as if she’s only just now realizing. “I used to do more rural stuff, pastoral scenes and stuff. Stuff like where I grew up, before we moved.” 

“Oh?” 

“Yeah. I did one I really liked. It was this pond near my old house. It was always really still, and the reflection was always perfect. So the painting looked the same right side up as upside down.” 

“I bet that one sold in a second.” 

“Nah. I burned it with the others.” 

“What?” 

She shifts on her stool. “When he--Emmett. When he--” She swallows. “I was staring at that painting.” 

“Oh.” 

“Yeah.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“Thanks,” she says. A moment passes. “Just say something if you ever want to talk.” 

“You too,” I say. 

With that, we both turn back to our respective canvases. I sketch out a rolling meadow, full of prairie grass, with a creek between the hills and a scattered few copses of trees. It’s idyllic, perfect beyond reality, and there’s a part of me that wishes I had Etta’s power. I’d love to climb into this painting for a moment. I know Etta’s never tried inhabiting her paintings, but I think she could if she wanted. 

“Could you turn on that lamp?” she asks. 

“Which one?” 

“The yellow one.” 

I do, and then ask, “Why?” 

“Better light. It puts some cool shadows on your face. You know, I used to worry you were anorexic.” 

“What?” 

“Your cheekbones don’t jut out like they did when you were in school.” 

“I didn’t have any money then,” I point out. She is right, though. I had a phase, when I was exhausted from my job and school and cape work and also had no money, in which I would take a nap instead of eating lunch. 

“I know that now. I didn’t then. I just knew that the nicest person on the team looked like a skeleton under her mask.” 

“You know, I don’t know who the rest of them are, underneath,” I say. “I just hope the Dentist isn’t a real dentist.” 

“He’s a real sadist,” Etta says darkly. 

“You’re not kidding.” 

“I always wondered about the Dancer,” Etta says idly. “He always seemed off in his own world.” 

“I think that was a powers thing,” I say. “Like, how getting powers can fry your brain in other ways.” 

“Hm,” Etta says. “Can it?” 

“Yeah,” I say. “I’ve read some on it. It sort of explains why…well, why capes are the way we are.” 

“What way is that?” Etta asks, eyebrows raised. 

“Kind of fucked up,” I say. “I’m including myself.” 

“I guess we kind of are,” Etta says. “I mean, severe trauma will do that to you.” 

“Yeah,” I agree. 

“What about Elliot?” 

“He’s not exactly an easy kid,” I say. “Don’t tell Florence I said so. We all know he gets in trouble at school.” 

“He’s standing up for himself.” 

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m proud of him. But he’s combative with everyone--remember his conferences?” 

“Yeah,” Etta agrees, a bit reluctantly. 

“I love him, and I’m proud of him,” I say. “You know that.” 

“You’re right,” Etta says. “I agree with you. I’ve just never thought about it.” 

“I feel like powers just make things worse,” I say. “We get something to keep us safe and it’s always something that makes you think about how you got them.” 

“Oh?” 

“I mean, like, I was kicking myself ‘cause I should’ve seen it coming. And now I can.” 

“I wanted to be in one of my paintings,” Etta says, looking off into the middle distance. 

“Exactly,” I say. “It’s shitty.”

“I wonder what the hell happened to our old team.” 

“I think the Gardener told me she had some sort of accident in the woods,” I say. “I’d bet money the Dancer was a dancer before all this. I mean, he was good.” 

“He made me paranoid,” Etta says. “I worried he’d hypnotize me.” 

“Same,” I agree. “I never knew where I stood with him.” 

“The Dentist did it on purpose,” Etta says, and I’m sure she’s right. “He wanted us to not know where we stood.”  

“Definitely,” I agree. “The Gardener told me he’d always played favorites like that. The Mailman almost always won.” 

“And we never did.” 

“Of course we didn’t,” I say. “We have morals.” 

Etta cracks a smile at me. “But, you know, wrecking shit like that felt good.” 

“It did,” I agree. It was pretty great when we got to destroy something, anything. It silenced the paranoia for a few moments. It was the first time I’d had a team and I wouldn’t have given it up for anything, until the moment I realized I needed to. 

“I’m glad you joined,” I say. “Not sure I would’ve been able to leave otherwise.” 

“Yeah,” Etta says. “Kinda wish we’d never been on that team.” 

I nod. “It’s weird. I learned a lot about being a cape--fighting, forgery, teamwork, all that--when we were part of the Professionals, but it was a pretty rough towards the end.” 

“I feel like it was always a bit rough.” 

“I mean, yeah. We weren’t friends with them like we are with Midnight.” A thought occurs to me. “Do you think--no, nevermind.” 

“Do I think what?” Etta asks. She’s put down her brush and is giving this conversation her full attention. I do her the same courtesy. 

“Do you think we would’ve been friends if we hadn’t had to join them and then leave them?” 

Etta looks at me oddly. “I mean, yeah? We’d still be in Midnight if we were both capes, just with different names.”

“No, I mean--jeez. I mean, the way the world works, there’s a dozen ways we don’t feel forced together by a really shitty boss and complicated moral dilemmas. Not sure we’d be friends if it weren’t for that.” 

“You’re my best friend,” Etta says plainly. “Don’t let that paranoia seep into the family.” 

I shoot her a look. 

“We’re family,” she says. 

“We are,” I say, as if it’s a surprise. It’s not. We’re raising a kid together. I trust them with my life. Etta is my best friend. Of course they’re my family, probably more than my collection of blood relatives back in Philadelphia. Goodness knows they know me better. 

Etta offers me a smile and turns back to her work. 

The cuckoo clock chimes three more hours before I remember: “Oh, hey, what happened with the video?” 

Etta smirks. “Nothing, really. I spread rumors that it was doctored with my fake accounts, because who could actually turn their head like that?” 

“Clever,” I say. 

“Em’s not thrilled, but she’s taking it in stride. Said it’s good for her reputation to be a little bit feared.”

“A little bit? That guy was scared shitless.” 

“He deserved it. Moron hung around a cape fight. Hopefully he’s learned his lesson and won’t stay for the next.” 

“No kidding,” I agree. Your average idiot should know better than to hang around when capes show up. “Good for Em, though. People hire her for scary. And for incredible hand-to-hand.” 

“She’s good,” Etta agrees. 

“Anything else new on the cape forums?” I ask. 

“Not much,” Etta says. “The usual background hum of speculation about Midnight, since we don’t show our faces much. Barbie’s ‘fanclub’ of weird and creepy men. Confusion about Artemis, who’s practically a cryptid. Some people talking about my art, wondering what exactly my power is. Longstanding fans of Ferra’s chatting about her in action. And you keep yourself out of sight pretty well, but people are always speculating about what exactly your power is, since you always seem to spot the next hit coming.” 

“Hm,” I say. “Anyone get it?” 

“A couple people have guessed it. I usually go in as some cape geek and point out the times you do take a hit, say that’s proof it’s not that.” 

“How many IDs do you have on the cape forums?” 

“Um…” Etta looks up, counting in her head. “Six. The Artist, myself--don’t really use that one--Zach the casual fan, Riley the excited high school kid, Nicole the cape geek, and Jamie the conspiracy theorist.” 

I nod. 

“How’d you find it?” Etta asks. 

“My coworker Jenny saw it,” I say. “She said she knows I like cape stuff and sent it my way.” 

“How much does she know?” Etta asks, instantly suspicious. 

“Don’t worry. She knows I’m a bit of a cape geek. Like you said. Pencil-pushing, perpetually-punctual Anjila Hayer as about as many ties to the Medium as Etta Thompson has to the Artist.” 

“Alright, alright,” Etta allows. “You know me. It’s my job to keep us underground.” 

“I know. I appreciate it.” 

She smiles again and stretches. “It’s probably dinner time. Let’s go eat.” 

“Let’s.” 

Dinner is nice enough that I know we’ve got time before our next job. Hopefully, enough time to throw a nice birthday party for Elliot.


	12. Day One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of backstory. The day Midnight first began, when Ferra and Artemis met.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have not had the brain space to write more of this as of late, so have some backstory! You may get more of this as we go, sort of as interludes but not really.

“So who am I working with this time?” Ferra asks. 

“Whistle, Wind Surfer, and Artemis.”

“Artemis?”

“A new one. She’s young, a sniper.” 

“Alright,” Ferra says. She’s used to working with fiery younger capes. It’s been two years since she took up this work, and she’s used to capes in their young twenties, wild and new and excited. She can deal. 

Outside, in the lot next to the warehouse, Ferra spots the usual suspects: Wind Surfer, wearing light blue and white, streamers of a sort trailing behind him; Whistle, from Odds and Ends, wearing all silver; and a new one, presumably Artemis, dressed like a Greek goddess, laurels and all. 

Ferra walks down the stairs and joins the group in the yard. A moment later, Heretic follows her. 

“Tonight, the Protectorate is patrolling downtown Minneapolis. They will be defending the city, and leaving their own tower unprotected. Get in, plug this into the computer, and get out.” He hands Ferra a flash drive, nods at the group, and then adds, “Meet back here with the flash drive for payment. Good luck.” 

He casts a glance at each of them, then walks off. 

“Right,” Ferra says. “The tower’s downtown, and we’ll be headed this way. What should I call you, and what can you do?” 

“You know me,” Wind Surfer says. He’s one of the Heretics. 

“Whistle,” Whistle says. Ferra knew this; she feels it’s better to feign ignorance in most circumstances. “Directional sonic blasts. Hundred, two hundred foot range.” 

“I’m Artemis,” the young girl says. She summons a bow from midair, an arrow nocked, and a matching quiver. “With my bow, I can shoot anything I can see. I’m as accurate as they get.” 

“And I’m Ferra,” Ferra says, shaken. Artemis can’t be older than seventeen. Even under the eye mask, she looks like a high schooler. She can disguise her identity, but not her age. “I’ll be leading the group tonight. I work with metal. Wind Surfer, go on ahead. See who’s there and report back with your ear piece. We’ll follow.” 

Wind Surfer nods, and takes off the center of the city. 

Artemis chats a bit as they head downtown, asking about the cape scene and what other jobs they’ve pulled. Finally, Ferra can’t keep back her curiosity. “How old are you?” she asks, trying for casual

“I’m sixteen,” she says. “You?”

“Thirty-two,” Ferra says. She’s almost twice this kid’s age. “Can I talk to you after the job?”

“Of course,” Artemis says cheerfully. 

The flash drive, already programmed by some unknown tinker-type, crashes the computers something fierce, and they’re back by Heretic’s warehouse before midnight. Whistle gives a curt nod and leaves with his envelope of cash. Wind Surfer goes back into the warehouse, presumably to join the other Heretics. Ferra is not going choose a name that dumb for her team, when she builds one. 

It’s just her and Artemis left, holding their payment for a job well done. Ferra turns to this kid and goes to ask her to dinner. 

 

Before she can open her mouth, Artemis draws her bow and points an arrow directly at Ferra’s heart. 

“What the hell is your problem?” she says sharply. “I’m young, not stupid. What do you want?” 

Ferra raises her hands in surrender. “Do you have a place to stay?”

“I--yeah, duh!”

“You’re vandalizing the Protectorate for money. You’re young enough to think they’re the good guys. Why?” 

“They’re not the good guys. They let awful things happen. I have my own place.” 

“No family?”

“We don’t talk.” 

Ferra sighs. “Come with me, please.” 

“No. You’re going to kill me.” She isn’t dumb, Ferra will give her that. 

“I’d just like to invite you over for dinner. I--” She thinks. In what world will this terrified teenager trust her? Ferra can’t let her just go, not without offering her at least a healthy meal. “You can meet my son.” 

“Your son?” She drops her bow a little. 

“Yes. You don’t have to reveal yourself to me, but let me cook you something tonight.” 

Artemis’s lips press together, and she finally puts away her bow. “Fine. But tell me your son’s name, first.”

“Elliot,” Ferra says, without hesitation. 

Artemis eats with Florence and Elliot that night. Florence floats the idea of the name “Midnight” for a team to herself, and decides she kind of likes it.


	13. Gem Guy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Midnight preps for the next job and continues to worry about their secrecy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! It's been a minute since the last update 'cause I needed a little time to plan a heist. Next chapter will be more action, less character development. Thanks for sticking with me!

“It won’t be easy,” Florence says. “But I think we can do it.” 

“You’re not kidding,” I say. “How about we rob a museum instead?” 

“No museums,” Etta says. 

“I know, I know.”

“I want to do this for two reasons,” Florence says. “First, the payoff is huge. We can invest time and money back into gear, house repairs, things like that. Second, I like a challenge. Are we in?” 

Everyone nods. 

Florence grins. “Great. This is the plan as it stands. Obviously it’s a group effort, so let’s plan it together.” She spreads a blueprint of the place on the table. “The CEO’s office is at the top of the building. We can take the elevator, but it’ll have cameras and other security. The stairs are less risky but a much slower escape. Outside of the tower is quick and badly secured, but conspicuous and a bit dangerous.” 

“I’m inclined to climb the outside,” Catherine says. 

“No elevators,” I say. “The fewer cameras we have to move or hack, the better.” 

“I think we should go up the stairs but have rappel ropes as a contingency plan,” Etta says. “I can carry some equipment with me when we go.” 

Florence nods. “Okay, up the stairs, outside of the building as an option.”

“We can also pose as window-cleaners,” Catherine says. “No one would question it.” 

Em nods. “I bet I could get at least one guard out.” 

“Hm?” I hum. 

“I could go in as a guard on rotation. Remove the human element. As soon as one leaves, change my face out of sight and go on to the next one.” 

“Clever,” Florence says. “I like it. Anjila, here’s what he has. I circled what I was thinking we could take.” 

I glance over the list. “Hm. Good. I can do all of these. Give me a month and a half, two at the outside. If there’s extra time, this necklace and this painting are also pretty good.” 

“Oh, I missed that one,” Florence says. “What is it?” 

“The necklace would be easy to do, and cheap. Most of those stones would fly just being cut glass. The painting is a little-known Cassatt. She’s an American Impressionist. Pretty cool.” 

“Neat,” Etta says. 

“His office has everything--heat sensors, motion detectors, pressure sensors on the floor and on each item, cameras of course, even lasers. Oh, and a fingerprint lock.” 

“Shit,” Em says. 

“Indeed. I figure we might need some time to break each one, but I have an idea for the pressure sensors.” 

“Oh?” I say. 

“It’s a high office. We need to get the sensors to all go off at once on windy days. Then they’ll start to think that a windy day can shake the room and set off the alarms. Then the only trick will be setting each one off at once when we make the switch.” 

“Just that,” Em says, her voice dripping with sarcasm. 

“We’ll get it done,” Florence says. “We’ve done harder.” 

“Somehow I doubt that,” I say. 

“It’s going to be fun,” Catherine says. “A real challenge. We haven’t had one in a while. Not since…jeez, the time we got those jewels, remember? The rubies?” 

“Those were nice,” Em says. “Lowkey wish we could’ve kept some.” 

“That is the easiest, fastest way to get caught,” Florence says. “That’s why I always get the fence ready before the heist.” 

“I know, jeez,” Em says, rolling her eyes. 

Florence uncaps a marker and starts writing a list on the whiteboard. 

Get in

Beat the motion detectors

Beat the pressure sensors

Beat the heat sensors

Unlock the safe

Get the items, i.e. individual alarms

Beat the individual weight sensors

Put replacements in place

Get out

“This is what we have to do.” She taps the whiteboard marker against her lips. “We have a month and a half.” 

“Why that time frame?” 

“Because in a month and a half there is a massive office-wide retreat, and most everyone will be out in the country for the week,” Florence says, a bit distant. 

“How long have you had your eye on this?” Etta asks. “Cause you sound just like my favorite poli sci prof.” 

“A while,” Florence admits. “I don’t like the CEO.”

“Should we be worried?” I ask. “E-88 funding?” 

“No, luckily. Just the usual immoral business practices. Largely sweatshops. Also, the inherent violence of capitalism.” 

“Are you sure you never went to college?” Etta asks.

Florence laughs. “I wish.”

“I mean, it’s not like we’ve ever stolen from random people. Just people who can afford to lose it,” I point out.

“And who have enough stuff to steal,” Em adds. 

Florence nods. “Exactly. Look, we do have time. Let’s think on this for a couple days and come back and see if we can’t tick a few items off the list. In the meantime: Anjila, copies. Etta, building security. Catherine, stakeout. Em, infiltration. And I’ll keep up with our contacts. Oh, and Em? Curie’s got an assignment downtown with the Protectorate in a week. I’m gonna need your help.” 

“On it,” Em says. 

“We should check the news,” I say. “Just in case.” 

“I think the video’s blown over,” Etta says. “It’s been a couple of weeks.” 

“Still,” I say. “We made a bit of scene.” 

“Alright,” Florence says. “We can catch the ten o’clock news. You guys go on ahead. I’ll clean up.” 

I’m the first to the family room, and I go straight for the news. Unfortunately, it’s not quite ten o’clock yet, and they’re running some kind of weird special. 

“Our next case is the story of Evelyn Sørensen, a young Danish immigrant who vanished without a trace from the town of Edina, only to be found months later in Nerstrand Big Woods State Park. What happened in those months? Find out after the break.” 

“The hell is this?” Em asks. 

“Not sure,” I say. I bring up the TV guide and read off, “Cold Blood: The Twin Cities’ strangest unsolved murders. This series investigates the most recent unsolved cases that leave behind more questions than answers. This episode: the stories of Evelyn Sørensen and Robert Shaw.” 

“I think I know that one,” Etta says, sitting down. “The Danish girl. Some weirdness with fishhooks in her ears.” 

“Gross,” Catherine says. 

“What’s this?” Florence asks as she joins us. 

“Special on unsolved murders,” I say. “Evelyn Sørensen and…Robert Shaw.” 

“Robert Shaw? I think I heard about that one,” Florence says. “Pulled him out of the river. It was weird because it was almost execution-style--no struggle.” 

“Weird,” Catherine says. “Can’t we watch something else? Something less gross?” 

“The news’ll be on soon,” I say. “Anyways, it’s the new channel. It won’t be that gory.” 

And so we learn the complicated story of young Evelyn Sørensen, a young Danish girl who went to meet a friend at a mall in Edina and never came home. There’s at least six suspects. We also learn about Robert Shaw, pulled half-naked from the Mississippi River shot through the heart, but not with a gun. No suspects. 

“Wild,” Em says as they close his story. 

“That’s scary,” Catherine says. “I mean, I’m her age. Evelyn.” 

Etta shivers. “It’s terrifying. Just…gone, like that.” She snaps her fingers. 

“What could that guy have been shot with?” I ask. 

“I mean,” Em says, gesturing at Catherine. 

Catherine rolls her eyes. “Well, I didn’t do it, and I’m pretty sure I’m the only person in the area who uses a bow and arrows. It doesn’t make sense for anyone but me.” 

“Oh, is that your deep dark secret?” Em asks with an impish grin. 

Catherine rolls her eyes again. “Very funny. When was this, spring a few years back? I hadn’t triggered yet.” 

“I’m not serious,” Em says, placating. “Don’t worry, I’m not actually accusing you of murder.” 

“I appreciate it,” Catherine says, sounding appeased. “Glad I’m not being accused of a literal felony.” 

“You’re probably the nicest person I know,” Em says. 

“Em, you make a living doing mercenary jobs,” I say. 

“I don’t kill people. Or injure them that much.” 

“But you know a lot of murderers,” Etta says. 

“Yeah, I do. Doesn’t mean I like them. There’s a reason I threw my lot in with you guys.” 

“Fair enough,” Florence says. “There’s also a reason we don’t take that kind of work. I’m not gonna be the cause of one of these.” She gestures towards the TV. “I mean, that poor girl, in some country she hardly knew, murdered like that? And that guy--he was a high school teacher. I’d bet money his students were never the same.” 

“I’d be messed up if one of my teachers was murdered,” Etta says. “Jeez.” 

Catherine nods. “Me too, and I dropped out.” 

“Quiet, guys, it’s a cape story,” I say. 

“In Minneapolis last night, the Protectorate held the line as the East Side Crew and the Downtowners battled it out…” the newscaster says. 

“They’ve moved on,” Etta says, with clear relief. 

“Let’s wait a bit,” I say. “We might be further down the priority list. If it bleeds, it leads and all that.” 

“That’s messed up,” Catherine says. 

“True, though,” Em says. “I’m in the news a lot. Well, indirectly, from freelancing.” 

The next story is a non-cape thing. In fact, they get to the heartwarming story about some school downtown that’s getting a new playground with no mention of us. 

“I think we’re in the clear,” Florence says. 

“I’ll stay up for the eleven o’clock,” I say. 

“Get some sleep,” Etta says. “Don’t you have work tomorrow?” 

“I do,” I admit. “I’ll be fine. I don’t have any meetings tomorrow and my next big project starts in a week. All I have tomorrow, work-wise, is some emails and other easy stuff.” 

“I don’t understand your job at all,” Catherine says. 

“Honestly, me neither,” I say. 

Florence laughs. “That’s adult life for you. Half of what I do, I hardly know what I’m doing. All the calls and meetings and stuff--jeez, I don’t know the point half the time.” 

“You do a lot that I don’t get,” Em says. 

“Thanks for doing it,” Etta says. “I’d lose my mind. I’d be paranoid about Enlighten writing Heretic’s emails.” 

“There’s a trick for that,” Florence says. “I have a program that reads the emails aloud, and then I dictate the replies, so I never have to read the email. I don’t know if Enlighten does write them, but her power only applies to written word.” 

“Oh, wow,” I say. “I didn’t know.” 

“Powers like that always have a workaround,” Florence says. “Always some kind of limit. Every power has one. Mine’s range. Catherine, you have the twelve arrows. Etta can only put in something as big as the canvas is. Em has a time limit. Anjila has a time limit, different kind though. Keep track of those and you can fight anyone.” 

“That is way more devious than I ever expected from you,” Etta says. 

Florence shrugs. “I’ve got to keep you guys alive. I’ve done worse.” 

“What?” Catherine blurts. 

“I’ve never killed anyone or anything! I just mean that if someone we work with goes asking too many questions, they have a bad day and usually a concussion. Sometimes a smeared reputation.” 

“Is that why you had me go out as Imperial that one time?” Em asks. 

Florence nods. “Why do you think he left the city?” 

“So you wrecked his rep? Why, wasn’t he just a rogue?” 

“He said he was. He made his money selling info. He tried to sell some heroes I know our ‘real identities’. I checked, they were wrong, but I wasn’t about to let him stick around.” 

“That’s fighting dirty,” Etta says, disapproving. 

“It’s fucked up is what it is,” Em says. “It’s just…really messed up. That is not okay.” 

“I made it look like he was tied up with multiple gangs, so each one was pissed off at him and no one wanted to stand by him. Last I heard he’s active in Milwaukee, although less of a piece of shit.” 

“Holy shit, Florence,” I say. 

She shrugs again. “I wouldn’t do it if I didn’t have to,” she says. “It wasn’t fun. I did what I had to do.” 

“You keep us alive,” I say. “I appreciate it.” 

“Thanks,” she says with a grin. 

“Oh boy, more unsolved murders,” Catherine says. “I’m going to bed. I’ve got the breakfast shift tomorrow.”

“Get some stakeout done in the afternoon?” Florence asks. 

“Of course. I’ll be home by dinner.” 

“Goodnight, then,” Florence says with a kind smile. 

We chorus our goodnights and turn back to the TV, now telling us the stories of Jackie Wester, who went for a walk to the gas station and never came back, and David Martinez, who disappeared “for personal reasons” and was found dead a week later in a ditch. 

“That poor girl’s parents,” Florence says. “I can’t even imagine.” 

Em shrugs. “I guess.” 

“You’d be furious if someone hurt Elliot,” I say. 

“Oh, yeah. I’d commit my first murder,” she says casually. “Look, my parents did not look that hard for me. Not everyone cares for their kid like we do.” 

“I can’t imagine it’s ever easy,” Florence says. “You did say you made yourself difficult to find.” 

“Not that difficult,” Em says. “I don’t have any aliases. Em Chen exists as far as my papers are concerned. Hell, I just renewed my license.” 

“I’m sorry,” Florence says. 

“Don’t worry about it. I never liked them much. I ran away for a reason, I wasn’t just one day like ‘Hey, maybe it’d be fun to move someplace where it gets so cold you can get frostbite in literal minutes’.” 

“Still,” I say. 

Em shrugs again. “Really, guys, it’s not a big deal. I’m fine.” 

“Alright,” Florence says, conciliatory. “It might be bedtime for me, anyways.” 

“Same,” Em says. “I’ve got a job tomorrow. I’ll be out early.” 

Another chorus of goodnights later finds Etta and me the last in the family room. 

“You sure you’re alright, Anjila?” 

“Yes, I am,” I say, rolling my eyes. “I promise I’ll speak up if I’m not. I’ll get to bed soon and tomorrow I’ll be in the studio with all my jeweler’s stuff.” 

“Alright. Night, then. I’ll lock my windows.” 

I really thought that was a secret, but I guess Etta’s known me too long. 

Once all the lights save Em’s are off, I lock the doors, set the alarm, and go to bed. Sleep is another story. 

After work the next day, I pull out my jeweler’s supplies. I haven’t in a long while, but they’re still in great condition: a huge variety of wire cutters, pliers, tweezers, glues. I do need more wire, though. All I’ve got left is eighteen-gauge copper from when we did a costume jewelry thing. We took off the precious gems, reworked them into more valuable pieces, and sold them for twice what they were originally worth. 

“So?” Etta asks. 

“I’ll get it done,” I say. “But first I’ve got to get the gems. I can make most of these with cubic zirconia and simulated sapphires--I mean, some I could even pull off with glass, but I might need a few real pearls. I know a guy who can help me out.” 

“Well, let me know if you need any art supplies. I’m doing a run tomorrow.” 

“Oh, really? I need wire. And rings, come to think of it. And probably some beads. And--”

“Make me a list,” Etta says with an indulgent grin. “Don’t forget to tell me colors and gauge.” 

“I will,” I promise. Since it’s the first day, step one is planning. If Etta gets my things, that’s off the list. I’ll need to check my paints, make a list of the gems I’ll need, prepare my canvases, and pull together a to-do list. 

I check the list of items we want to steal, count up the gems, and dial a number. 

“Hey, Sam.” 

“Hey there, Medium. What can I do for ya?” 

“I’ve got a list of gems I need. Can you get them for me?” 

“Depends. What do you need?” 

“Sim sapphires and cubic zirconia, and a few low-grade pearls. Anything you can make glass and get away with would be great. I can send you a list with sizes and measurements.” 

“You got pictures?” 

“You bet I do. Can I count on your discretion?” 

“Have I ever let you down?” he says, a smile in his voice. 

“I mean, yeah.” 

“Hey, how was I supposed to know that one was one of those funky color-changing things?” 

“Alright, alright. Give me a call when you get the stuff, yeah?” 

“Yeah. How many do you need?” 

“Oh, a solid few.” 

“Give me a week.” 

“Thanks, Sam. Take care.” 

“You too.” 

“Who’s that?” Etta asks. 

“Sam, my gem guy. He’s been getting me stuff since…jeez, our third job, I think. Great guy, very reliable.” 

“Is he legit?” 

“Somewhat. He gets the gems legally but he deals with criminals. But he gets them wholesale so it’s cheap, and I always give him some extra. We can afford it and it keeps him on our side. Plus, he is discreet.” 

“No need to justify yourself to me,” Etta says. “I’ve got people. Some more legal than others.” 

“What?” 

“I mean, art people, of course, and then I have some hacker buddies around if there’s a problem I can’t crack or I need multiple computers. One of them calls himself Hot Dish, which is sure something.”

“Wait a minute, do you have some secret online codename?” I ask, trying not to laugh. 

“I do,” Etta says carefully. 

“What is it?” I ask, grinning gleefully. 

She rolls her eyes. “Fine, but only because I know you’ll never let this go. Meta. Like, meta-data.” 

“I like it,” I say, only half-joking. “I mean, you didn’t go with fricking ‘Hot Dish’.”

“You can curse, you know,” Etta points out. “Elliot’s not here.” 

“Oh, right,” I say absently. “Well, fuck that.” 

Etta laughs. “You’re something else, Anjila.” 

I laugh back and say, “Yeah, yeah. Come on, help me size up some canvases.” 

A quick glance around the studio at the end of the day makes me very glad that we picked one of the biggest rooms in the house for it. There’s a lot to do, and the sheer quantity of supplies spread out over almost five hundred square feet reminds me that Etta lived this. 

“Etta? Is this studio bigger or smaller than your old studio?” 

She casts a glance around the room--the secondhand couch, the old TV, my jewelry table, the collection of easels and half-finished paintings, our three painting stools (one spare), the “costume shop” in the corner with the good sewing machine, her computer desk with her desktop and extra monitor, the huge IKEA shelving unit on one side full to the brim with art supplies of every kind, and the two of us in the middle of it. 

“Bigger,” she says. “But I have to share it.” 

“It’s not that bad,” I say. 

“No,” she says with a grin. “Actually, I kind of think I like it better.”


End file.
